


Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

by tikistitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Humor, M/M, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 07:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When public defender Sam Winchester's new client show signs of demonic possession he calls on his brother, Dean, a reluctant member of the GhostFacers team, for help.  But the brothers might have stumbled into a meltdown of celestial proportions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 Supernatural Reverse Bang Challenge. My grateful thanks to my betas, zsomeone and nugatorytm; and to hipokras, for a fun and creative art prompt.

Sam checked his watch one more time and reviewed the stacks of legal briefs on the table in front of him. “Drew the short straw this time, Winchester,” Victor had told him when he had handed over the files. “Low man on the totem pole,” he’d added.

“The road to Hell,” muttered Sam, rolling his eyes, “is paved with Victor’s crap-ass metaphors.”

Sam grimaced and opened the newest file: the psychiatric evaluation. He was supposed to have reviewed it before he got here tonight, but then Brenda at Records couldn’t figure out how to use an encryption key with her email to save her worthless bureaucratic life (fucking government employees) so he’d had to drive out of his way to grab a hard copy and then hustle down to the county jail in the nick of time before visiting hours were over for the day.

He stretched and yawned. Another 3 am wakeup last night: this sleeplessness was getting annoying. Maybe he would try that herb tea he'd been reading about. It couldn't hurt.

Sam always hated meeting prisoners here, in this old slab of a building. It was supposed to convey the might and majesty of the legal system, but to him it was just an ugly, drafty old building that smelled like cleaning fluid that couldn’t quite mask the stench of urine.

And it was drafty as hell. He pulled his jacket closer, and listened to the creaking outside the one, high window. The wind had kicked up: it looked like a storm was blowing in. Just what he needed: a commute back in the dark and rain, and here he’d blown a headlight and needed his wipers replaced. He considered going to visit Dean. His brother probably wouldn’t mind sticking his piece of shit car back together, although he’d give Sam a ribbing about it being made of plastic. But the thought of sitting with a long neck beer while his older brother puttered around inside a car just made his face edge into a smile.

He’d call Dean. After he was done here. The guy kept late hours.

“Uh, Sam?”

Sam must have been lost in thought, because he nearly jumped out of his seat at the sound of the voice behind him.

“Dammit, Artie,” he said, turning and looking at the broad-faced jailer behind him. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Uh, hey, Sam? We were gonna bring Nick, but there’s been some kind of delay? I dunno, I can’t make sense of it.”

“You going to bring him here before I die of old age?” asked Sam, irritably checking the watch again.

“Yeah. We’ll do that. He’s on his way.”

Sam sighed and turned back to his psych report, which he spread out all over the table. _Phosphoros, N._ , it said at the top. Since he didn’t have an electronic copy, he couldn’t do a search for the words he sought. “Flatness of affect,” was the phrase that came to mind, even before he’d found the doctor’s notes. He’d met Nick once before, and briefly. Poor son of a bitch was being held for murder of his wife and infant daughter. According to the police report he had called 911 himself, and they had found him sitting right there, his hands still bloody, muttering, “I don’t know what happened.” And that was all they’d gotten from him since. The few words they’d dragged out of him. He hadn’t really seemed to have processed the fact that his wife and daughter were dead. 

Sam’s eyes now raced over the doctor’s report, searching for phrases like “fugue state” or “multiple personality disorder.” He needed something. But what he finally found stunned him.

_Antisocial personality disorder._

They thought his guy was a sociopath?

Sam jumped, yet again. The wind had gusted, rattling the window again, and now the rain was beginning to make a patter. There was a soft moan, almost like someone speaking. He shivered, wondering why the hell he was so damned jumpy tonight. He did need a beer. Maybe a couple. And his jerk brother calling him “bitch.”

He scanned the psych report again. _PCL-R_. They had recommended administering Hare’s psychopathy test to Nick. Sam shook his head. Not gonna happen, not before the trial. He didn’t want his guy tagged as a soulless monster.

Sam jerked up again. His client was finally here. Sam got to his feet. Funny, the guard wasn’t Artie, or anyone he recognized. In fact, where had Artie disappeared to? Weird.

Sam hurriedly flipped the psych evaluation closed as he stood. Nick was exactly as he remembered him, shuffling in, head down. 

“Hey Nick,” said Sam.

Nick didn’t look up, nor did he reply, but simply let himself be led over to the table opposite Sam.

“You can leave us now,” Sam told the guard. The guard didn’t reply, but turned around and walked towards the door of the little conference room. Sam stared after him, a little unnerved, though he wasn’t sure why.

The wind howled again.

“Saaaaam.” 

It was the barest whisper. Sam turned with a start, looking up to the clouded window, which was now getting splattered with rain. _Calm down, idiot_ , Sam told himself. He turned to face Nick again. “Nick, why don’t you sit down?” he asked, taking a seat himself. Nick sunk into his chair. Somewhere outside, lightning flashed. Sam, despite himself, looked up again. This was a bit early in the season for a thunderstorm. He actually got back up and walked over to the window, just as the boom of thunder crashed outside. Another lightning bolt flashed, and Sam started to count, 1-2-3. And then a boom.

Another flash and….

With a pop, the lights were out.

“He’s near.”

Sam jerked around. This wasn’t a weird whisper this time: this time, Nick had spoken. Sam regarded his client in the dim light. “I…. I’ll call a guard. They gotta have a backup generator here. Sit tight.” He moved to the door, opening it a crack. “Hey,” he began. He paused. Where the hell had the guard gone? He went outside into the corridor, shutting the door carefully behind him. He pulled out his cell phone and cast the light from its screen up and down the hallway. There was absolutely no one around.

“OK, whatever,” grumbled Sam, going back to sit with Nick. He flashed the light from his cell phone on his client, and was a little startled to see he was now sitting up, staring at Sam. The light from the phone was reflected in his eyes.

“Nick, we gotta just sit tight a little while.”

“I can’t hold him back…” whispered Nick.

“What?” asked Sam. 

“I don’t know how much longer I can hold him back,” Nick repeated.

“Keep who back, Nick?” Sam’s mind reeled. A sociopath? Is he playing a trick?

“He wants to speak to you,” said Nick.

“Who?” asked Sam.

Nick stared at him, his eye glinting with an unearthly light.

Sam jumped once again as the door crashed open and a body hurtled into the room. He grabbed a chair and held it in front of him.

The lights flicked on.

“You okay in here?” asked Artie, raising an eyebrow at Sam.

Sam stood, breathing hard, and noticed he was still gripping the chair. He frowned and let it drop to the floor. “Everything OK in here,” he breathed, steadying himself. “Where the hell did you go?”

Artie glared. “I was right outside. The whole time.”

“Okay, okay,” said Sam. “Uh, sorry.”

“We'll need to cut this visit short, Sam,” said Artie, now a little apologetic. “No visitors until we get the power back. There was a lightning strike. We're on the generator now.”

Sam ducked his head down, scooped up everything from the table, and, with a nod towards Nick, fled out the door.

“Jumpy bastard,” grumbled Artie.

 

Ed and Harry were engaged in one of their many high level discussions.

“What?”

_“What?”_

“What what?”

Dean heaved a sigh, counted slowly to ten, and wondered if he should call Sammy regarding the legal ramifications of strangling one or both of his bosses. This was gonna be a long night. “Look, Ed…” he began.

“What is it, Winchester?” groused Ed, turning his bespectacled eyes towards Dean. “May I remind you that you are….”

“Still on probation,” said Dean. “After your last intern was scarred for life. Yeah. Got it,” he added, knowing full well it would make Ed and Harry cringe. He surreptitiously checked his watch again. After midnight. Well after midnight. And he had an early day at the auto shop tomorrow. “Look, this is a big house, have you thought maybe the entity just doesn’t happen to manifest in the dining room?” 

“But we have the best angles in here!” whined Spruce.

“Uh, yeah, and I’m sure the spirits are fully aware of that,” said Dean. “What I was thinking was-“

“You’re not being paid to think, big guy,” Harry muttered under his breath. Dean paused, turning to glower at Harry, who was suddenly very interested in something on the ground. 

“Look. Why don’t we split up? We could cover the most ground that way,” said Dean.

“We are not splitting up! We never split up! We stay together!” squealed Ed.

“It’s okay, Ed, it’s okay,” soothed Harry, patting his partner on the shoulder. “You know, that might not be such a bad idea, after all. Maybe me and Maggie-“

“You and Maggie?” snorted Ed. “Oh, yeah, why don’t you and Daphne take off and you leave me here with freaking Velma.”

“Who are Daphne and Velma?” piped up Cas, who had been standing quietly by the entire evening. Dean turned to him and smiled. Guy had a patience of a saint to put up with so much from Ed and Harry.

“It’s a TV cartoon, Cas,” Dean supplied. 

“Oh,” said Cas, tilting his head in puzzlement. “Does an animation have relevance to smiting a spirit?”

“The kids used to go around in a van looking for ghosts,” said Dean.

“They were drug dealers! That’s the only explanation!” averred Ed.

“Hey, Cas, why don’t you make yourself useful and go get us coffee,” suggested Harry.

“You want Cas to hop over to Starbucks? In the middle of a job?” asked Dean.

“Oh, yes, get me a vanilla soy latte!” Ed told Cas. “Half decaf!”

“Would you like anything, Dean?” Cas asked him.

“Just … black coffee,” sighed Dean, who very much wanted to ask to come along. And then maybe keep driving and never return. But instead they sent Cas off with a list of insanely detailed orders, and then, to Ed’s dismay, Harry and Maggie decided to go off alone to explore the upper floor. 

“I’ll check the basement,” Dean told Ed, striding off before anybody could object. He found the basement stairs just as the rainstorm, which had been threatening outside, suddenly hit. He ticked the light switch on and off a couple of times, and, seeing no response, clicked on his flashlight. “Dark and creepy, just the way I like it,” he muttered to himself, hoping that meant spirit entities and a quick finish to this endless evening. 

“Don't quit your day job,” had been Sam's crack when Dean told him he was signing on with the GhostFacers. It had been good advice, but it made his life a little hectic, especially when Ed and Harry couldn't seem to understand that not everybody lived in Mom's basement. Or Mom's garage, rather. Some people, like Dean, actually had to work for a living.

Dean found his way down the wooden stairs, and was a little taken aback: the basement, which he had expected to be a single room full of cast-off sleds and Christmas decorations, seemed to be even more extensive than the main floor. He took out an EMF meter, and started his rounds. The first few rooms were evidently interconnected storerooms, and all were crammed to the ceiling with various odds and ends the former owners of the house evidently couldn’t be bothered to toss out. 

The meter, which had been zero upstairs, started creeping slowly upwards as he walked. Dean glanced up, frowning. The rainstorm outside had dulled to a distant thrum on this level, but he thought he heard something up ahead. It wasn’t the scrabbling and scraping of rodents, as you’d expect. It sounded like distant music. He put his head up to a wall. Yes, it was coming from the next room. 

He paused for a moment, considering running back upstairs and telling Ed or Harry. He shook his head and muttered, “Screw those dimwits.” He scanned the wall and, with some effort, pushed away a shelving unit that was partially obscuring a door, and checked the handle. It was locked. He shrugged and pulled out a pick, and the lock was soon opened to him. 

He opened the door, and, cringing at the creaking hinges, entered the next room. The air was especially musty here, as if it hadn’t been opened in a while. He shone the flashlight around. It was weird: the room was huge, and unlike the other cluttered rooms, it was mostly empty. There were decorative columns that must have at one point been brightly painted, and Dean noticed that there were dim remnants of murals painted on the walls. 

He didn’t hear the distant music any more, but he crossed the floor to take a look at the one large piece of furniture: an old fashioned theater organ. He pulled back the dusty tarp covering it and hit a couple of keys. He nearly jumped out of his skin when it actually played.

“OK,” Dean muttered to himself. “Blinky light switches, but the organ plays. Nice.” Suddenly, he looked, down, cross-eyed. He could see his breath. The room had grown cold.

And there it was, the slight, far-off sound of music. He pointed the flashlight around the room, and spotted it, over in the corner. Or rather, spotted them: the ghostly figures of a couple, dancing to the music. It was a cute little old-timey couple, he in a fussy high-collared suit, she in hoop skirts.

“Whoa. Haunted Mansion, dude!” said Dean out loud. And then he froze. The ghostly dancing couple both suddenly stopped dancing and glared over at him. “Uh, hi?”

And then they changed, from a charming amusement park ride to vile creatures, all teeth and claws and gawping mouths. And both came flying across the room, straight at him.

“Not good!” said Dean, making a run back the way he'd come. He dove through the doorway, and then the door suddenly closed behind him with a slam.

Dean gasped as he was suddenly thrown against the wall, a cool hand over his mouth. But fear turned to confusion when he saw it was Cas. Cas's face was just inches from his own, a finger on his own lips, gesturing for silence. Dean nodded, and Cas released his grip. Dean was surprised: for a scrawny looking guy, he was strong as hell.

Cas put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and pointed upwards, mouthing, “Go!” But Dean stubbornly shook his head and pointed to the ground. Cas looked for one moment like he might try to force the issue. Dean was taken aback: he was used to Cas being a pretty mousy guy, but he seemed intense as hell right now. Cas shook his head in annoyance and looked around the dim room. Dean noticed with some puzzlement that Cas didn’t seem to be carrying a flashlight. Cas reached a hand into one of the many cardboard boxes stacked in the room and brought out a big old fireplace poker, which he experimentally used to strike out a couple of times before handing it over to Dean.

“A … poker?” Dean mouthed.

Cas pulled him over by the collar, his mouth to Dean's ear. “Cold iron,” he hissed. Dean hefted the bar in his hands, feeling the weight, musing for a moment. He seemed to recall reading now that iron repelled spirits, though it didn't seem to be in Ed and Harry's bag of tricks. Dean whacked the air with the poker a couple of times, and then went to stand by Cas on the opposite side of the door to the ghostly ballroom. He listened. 

When the music started up again, Cas held up three fingers. Dean nodded. Cas ticked off 1-2-3, and then they both burst into the room. The dancing ghosts halted in their tracks, and Cas was there, arm thrust out, palm towards the ectoplasmic couple, and began chanting in some weird language. Dean listened closely: it didn't sound like Latin, but the words sounded old.

And then it was like a repeat of Dean's experience: the lady of the couple was the first to fang out and come flying at Cas, but Dean stepped in her way and slammed her with the poker. To his surprise, her spirit dissipated at the touch of the iron. The male (or formerly male) spirit then dove at them, but Dean managed to bat him away as well.

“Cas, is this gonna take much longer?” asked Dean. Cas, however, had his eyes squeezed shut, and simply went on chanting. 

The couple had now reconstituted at the other end of the room and, unfortunately, decided to both attack at once, instead of politely doing it one at a time like in the movies. “Cas!” yelled Dean. But the chanting merely became more intense. Dean gripped the poker like a baseball bat and the spirits flew at him.

But suddenly, they froze in mid-air, emitting a piercing scream. Dean dropped the poker to cover his ears. The spirits began to glow, and then seemed to fragment, like they'd been dipped in liquid nitrogen and hit with a hammer. 

The screaming stopped and the ghosts disappeared. The room was suddenly silent.

Cas had dropped his arm, and was breathing hard. “Did you sustain any injuries, Dean?” 

Dean poked a finger in his ear. “No, I'm fine.”

“I thank you for your assistance.”

“You did all the work, dude!” said Dean. “That was pretty freaking impressive!” he added. After a look around the ballroom and a check of Dean's EMF meter, they walked back the way they had come in. 

“What was that, anyway?” asked Dean. 

“I know.... I know a few spells,” explained Cas. “I should get upstairs. The coffee will be getting cold,” he said. And, indeed, Dean now noticed there was a small cardboard tray full of mochas and lattes sitting on one of the boxes in the basement storeroom.

“We gonna tell Ed and Harry about this?” asked Dean, tossing the poker back in a box.

“If it makes no difference to you Dean....” said Cas, frowning at Dean. 

“Don't tell them? You're sure?” asked Dean.

“Yes, I am sure.”

“They'd just be pissed they didn't get it on tape,” grinned Dean. “Hey, your secret's safe with me, buddy.”

Cas smiled gratefully. “Now, maybe I should go ahead first?” he proposed. Dean nodded, and watched Cas take the tray of espresso upstairs, noticing once again that he didn't bother with a flashlight on the darkened stairway. 

Dean caught Ed's whine as started upstairs. “Cas, my vanilla soy latte is cold!”

 

Sam knocked on a familiar door. The words, Public Defender – Victor Henricksen were stenciled on the smoked glass. Sam heard a grunt from within and poked his head in.

“Victor?”

“Sam! Come on in! Sit down!” smiled Victor, indicating a chair. Sam carefully folded himself into a tiny guest chair in Victor's cluttered office.

“So, the guy, Nick Phosphoros?” asked Sam.

“The murder case?” asked Victor, his glad-handing smile fading. “Yeah, that was a tragedy. Sorry I haven't had time to talk it over. I think our only option here is trying to keep the guy out of the electric chair. I've got a call into the DA’s office: I think there might be a deal in this, in return for consecutive life sentences-”

“Victor. I don't think he did it.”

Victor paused in his monologue. He gestured towards the door. “Close the door, Sam,” he said, going into a familiar desk drawer. Sam reached around and pushed the door closed (it was easy in the cramped office) as Victor came up with a bottle and two shot glasses. He placed the glasses on one of the stacks of files that littered his desk and filled them both.

“Now, Sam, what is Henricksen's First Rule of Law?” said Victor.

Sam took a shot glass and sipped. _Eau de lighter fluid_ , he thought. “They're always guilty,” he recited.

“They're always guilty. I know, coming fresh from law school, you have pie-in-the-sky notions about what you'll be doing. What you're doing is this-”

“Defending guilty people,” put in Sam. “Yeah, but Victor, this guy, Nick-”

“...killed his wife and baby daughter. Sam, I know it's difficult, but that's what happened. Now, maybe he was having some kind of psychotic episode. But I think you’ll agree, the poor guy belongs in custody. So he doesn’t hurt anybody else.”

“Victor, look…” Sam began. A frown edged his features. “I’ve got a feeling about this guy. Now, wait before you interrupt me. You read the psych report?”

“Yeah. Maybe got us a sociopath.”

“No. It’s wrong.”

“Come again?” asked Victor.

“Look, Victor, I got a sixth sense about sociopaths. And this is a real thing, I know from reading the literature. Some people, like me I guess, just get an uneasy feeling around them. I don’t know how, but I just know.”

“And you don’t feel that little sociopath tingle around Nick?” asked Victor, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, no.”

“Great. A jury will eat that one up.” Victor sat back. “Look, Sam, I’m sorry, but the guy’s not a real multiple personality, and he’s not schizophrenic, either. He’s just a bad guy.”

“Listen Victor. I have a theory. I know it sounds crazy. But, you know about my family, right?”

“You told me they were a bunch of exorcist weirdos, right?” laughed Victor.

“Yeah, exorcist weirdos. Anyway, there’s a lot of lore about this. I actually looked it up in one of my grandfather's notebooks. There are documented cases where people have been … possessed.”

Sam looked up expectantly. He gulped. Victor's look was anything but encouraging. 

“Okay, Winchester. You need some time off? Is that what you're telling me? Nick didn't listen to the fairies whispering in his ear-”

“No, actually, it would be demons-”

“Sam!” Sam shut up. “I'll spell it out. Nick is a bad guy. He isn't right in the head, and he did a terrible thing. But by the laws of our democracy, he gets the best defense we can give. So when we go to trial, if that's what this comes down to, I want the best possible defense, which means there better not be any fucking leprechauns or bride of the mummy or whatever else you saw in your tea leaves this morning. Is that understood?”

Sam shrunk down very small in his seat. “Yes sir.”

 

Dean sighed and hit the CALL END button on his phone and leaned against a tree. A possessed client? That sounded sort of cool. Awesome actually. He glanced over to where Ed and Harry were re-shooting close ups. “We need B roll!” they had said. Yeah, whatever. Dean had thought the point was helping people, not posing for the cameras. What were they, Paris Fucking Hilton?

He had learned a lot since he'd joined up with the GhostFacers, that he had to admit. EMF waves. Rock salt. But he had the impression there was more-

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas! We've talked about this! Don't sneak up on me like that!” Dean said amiably. Seriously, guy had the social skills of an eight year old. Or maybe a man from Mars, Dean didn't know. He was hovering there now, too damn close, blinking at Dean like he'd never met a human before. “Take me to your leader,” thought Dean. But despite the weird, he wasn't an attention whore like Ed and Harry, and he actually seemed to know his shit. 

“I'm sorry, Dean,” said Cas, who looked sort of baffled, but also didn't back up. Dean gripped Cas by the shoulder and led him on a walk, away from where Spruce was screeching about losing the light.

“You know, I never thanked you for the other day.”

“The other day?” asked Cas.

“The dancing ghosts,” said Dean. “I have no idea what you did, but that was cool.”

“I know a few … incantations,” shrugged Cas, who once again suddenly seemed evasive.

“Dude, you gotta teach me.”

“I’m not sure Ed and Harry would approve-“

“Oh, fuck Ed and Harry. Aren’t you sick of running after their coffee by now?”

Cas shrugged.

“Anyway, I was talking to my brother,” Dean confided.

“Your brother Sam? The one who is the defense attorney?” asked Cas. Dean frowned. Had he mentioned Sam to Cas? He couldn't remember.

“Anyway, he's got this client. It's pretty bad, it's a murder. And the thing is, he thinks the guy's possessed.”

Cas nodded. “Demonic possession may account for antisocial behavior.”

“This was pretty bad, Cas. This was his wife. And baby.”

“This indicates either a very strong demonic power, or alternatively the subconscious wish of the possessed human.”

“Whoa! Subconscious? So demons can be like an id monster?” Dean wasn't exactly sure where he'd picked up the term. Maybe he had read one of Sammy's college textbooks when he was bored?

“While Freud was incorrect on many facets of human behavior, and I believe parenthetically harbored certain sexist beliefs which were common in his era, I agree that your analogy captures the essence of the phenomenon, Dean.”

“Ya know what I like about you Cas?”

“Uh, what's that, Dean?”

“You use words like 'parenthetically' when you talk. It's spooky.” 

Cas wore a look that verged upon happiness. “You like this about me, Dean?” he asked, his face a mask of earnestness.

“Yeah, I like you, sure,” laughed Dean, clapping Cas on the back to emphasize the point. Cas looked back curiously, as if he thought this meant there was something on his back, but then broke out into a real, if tenuous, smile. “So,” Dean continued, “maybe you'll come talk to my brother with me?”

“Of course,” said Cas, blue eyes sparkling.

“Cool! Hey, you wanna ride back into town?”

“That would be pleasant, thank you-” But then Cas suddenly froze, and his eyes seemed to go out of focus.

“What is it?”

“I, uh... I apologize, Dean. I forgot. I have a, uh, important meeting.”

“Meeting? What, with Ed and Harry?”

“Uh, no. You could say, my other job.”

“Oh, didn't quit your day job?” asked Dean. “Yeah, I understand. I'm still working at the garage, myself. In fact, gotta be on in a couple hours. Well, I'll be in touch about my brother, okay?”

“Yes, definitely.”

 

Castiel paused uncertainly, as he always did, at the door of Zachariah's office. If humans were puzzling to Castiel, then Upper Management was ever more so. He had been created as a soldier, or at least that's what he thought their heavenly Father's plan for him had been. This sudden transfer some decades ago to the Department of Revelation had been unexpected. He remembered Balthazar and Uriel, his comrades, rolling their eyes, and Uriel saying, “Working for Zach? You'll be chewed up and spit out, kid.”

He braced himself and pushed in the door. Zachariah sat behind his desk, stretching comfortably in his customary portly human vessel. Cas was very newly installed in his own vessel, and it still felt discomfiting.

“Ah, Castiel! Sit down, sit down!” said Zachariah, with a broad smile that came nowhere near his piggish eyes.

“Zachariah, I have left several urgent communications for your office....”

“Communications?” said Zachariah, who busied himself opening an envelope with a sharp letter opener. “I wasn't aware of any communications.” The eyes blinked with a simulacrum of innocence.

“My assignment, Zachariah.”

“Well, obviously a glitch in messaging. It's been in a state of constant clusterfuck since Gabriel left us I'm afraid.” He looked up. “Why don't you just tell me, now that you're here?”

Cas frowned. “So, that was not the reason I was summoned today?”

“Castiel, did I just ask for a report, or did I ask for more of your blithering?” asked Zachariah, running a finger down the side of his silver letter opener.

Cas kept his human face neutral. “I have found the Righteous Man, Zachariah. The one foretold in prophecy. He works with me, even now. I have never seen a human soul burn more brightly. He is like a holy fire, streaking-”

“Righteous Man?” asked Zachariah. “Hmpf. Well isn't that good news. Hallelujah, and hosannah, and all that shit. Now,” he said, straightening up in his chair, “it's time for your centennial performance evaluation.”

“Zachariah?”

“What is it, Castiel?”

Castiel shifted uncomfortably. “What should I do about the Righteous Man?”

Zachariah sat forward and knit his hands together. “Castiel, what were you told to do?”

“To wait, Zachariah?”

“Well, then, those are your orders.”

“But Zachariah-”

“Castiel! Need I remind you what happened with your previous assignment?”

Castiel shut his mouth and looked glum.

“Tell me, do you want another Poland? Is that what you want?”

Castiel looked down and muttered something.

“What was that?”

“No, Zachariah.”

“Alrighty then!” said Zachariah brightly. “About your performance evaluation....”

 

Dean had told Sam he was bringing along a “colleague,” but Sam was mildly surprised to see him walking up with neither Ed nor Harry, but instead some unassuming guy wearing a trench coat. 

“Sam,” said Dean. “This is Cas.”

“Oh, nice to meet you, Cas,” said Sam, extending a hand.

“I am very pleased to meet you, Sam,” said Cas, who stared at Sam's hand for an awkward beat before clasping it warmly. Sam cast a glance at Dean, who mouthed, “It's okay.”

“This is an … interesting building,” said Cas, looking up at the exterior of the county jail building.

“Always gives me the creeps, frankly,” sighed Sam. “They're building a new one. Can't wait 'til it's completed, but it's taking for-fucking-ever.

“Yes, the structure is, unfortunately, located on a spiritual confluence, so there is bound to be elevated paranormal activity,” Cas informed them.

“You're … a psychic or something?” asked Sam

“No. Nothing of the sort,” Cas assured him quickly. “I read up on the lore regarding this building prior to our meeting. I am most impressed, though, that you are sensitive to it,” he added, training his laser beam eyes directly at Sam, who actually winced.

“Wish you'd talk to my boss,” said Sam, attempting to laugh it off.

“Why is that, Sam?” probed Cas.

“Oh, I told him the other day I get the heebie-jeebies when I'm in the room with a psychopath.”

“Victor?” laughed Dean. “What did he do?”

“Threw me out of his freaking office,” said Sam.

“I am surprised he is not well read on the literature,” said Cas. “This kind of sense is actually very well documented....”

“Yes! That's my point exactly!” said Sam, who hurried off, deep in nerdy conversation with Cas.

“This structure is actually at what in Hindu tradition is termed a _Triveni Sangam_...” Cas babbled.

Dean remained on the sidewalk for a moment, watching them go. “Great, an afternoon with the Geek Patrol,” he muttered, although he was smiling. He took a look down to make sure his tie was straight, and then hurried after his brother. He had to concede Sam's point about it being a place that gave you the creeps when he entered the revolving door to the lobby. The twenty foot high ceiling and bas-relief carvings he guessed were supposed to convey that this was a bunch of dudes who don't fuck around. The effect was marred by the metal detector set up there. And it smelled … well, it smelled like a place you would never quite clean up, even if you sand-blasted the walls.

“I told them you guys are from the P.D.'s office in Topeka,” Sam whispered to Dean when they approached the waiting room.

“So this is jail, huh?” asked Dean. “Dad always said I'd end up here someday.”

“Correctional facility, actually,” said Sam. Sam's line of B.S. must have worked, because they were soon buzzed in and led to a small conference room, where a guard walked in what Dean thought looked for all the world like a guy he would pass on the street and not look twice. He was tall, though not as tall as Sam, and sandy haired, but what struck Dean the most was the haunted look in his eyes. Well, judging from what Sam said the guy was supposed to have done, that was no surprise.

Nick sat down without a word (or rather seemed to let the guard seat him). Then, after the dude with the keys attached the chain at the Nick's waist to a loop on the table, the guard disappeared outside, and they were alone with the prisoner. Dean felt an involuntary shiver creep up his spine.

“Uh, Nick? These are two of my colleagues,” said Sam. There was no response from the prisoner.

Cas had already gone over to Nick and, crouching down to be at eye level, gave the guy one of his penetrating stares. 

Sam stared. “What's he doing?” Sam whispered to Dean, who gave a not terribly reassuring shrug. 

Cas straightened up and walked over to the other side of the room to confer with Sam and Dean. “Sam,” he whispered. “I am not entirely certain this man is possessed. Or rather, if there is a possession, I do not believe it to be demonic in nature.”

“Oh, uh, there's other kinds of possessions?” asked Sam.

“Yeah, we meet new kinds of creepy crawlies all day long,” said Dean. “What to do you think it is, Cas?”

“May I try something?” Cas asked Sam.

Sam gestured, so Cas walked closer to Nick. This time Sam and Dean drew closer as well.

Cas said, “Nick?” And then he said something to Nick: it resembled Latin. Nick did not respond. Cas tried a couple more phrases, each time in what sounded like a different language, but Nick continued to sit, glassy-eyed.

Finally, Cas said something in words that were not in English, or any language Sam recognized. To Sam's shock, Nick seemed to perk up. He looked at Cas, his eyes coming into focus. And then Nick softly spoke in what sounded like the same language. 

Cas did not reply. He seemed too nonplussed. Nick slowly sank back to his semi-catatonic state.

“Cas?” asked Dean.

Flustered, Cas gestured for them to go. Sam signaled to the guards, and they retreated, Cas, who seemed lost in thought, leading the way. He didn't speak again until they were all the way outside the buidling.

“Cas, you gonna freaking tell us what's going on?” asked Dean.

“I.... I'm afraid I don't know myself,” said Cas.

“Cas, what language was that?” asked Sam. “Maybe I could get a translator?”

“I doubt it, Sam,” said Cas. “I spoke to him in Enochian.”

“What's Enochian?” asked Dean.

“It is the traditional language of the angels,” said Cas. 

“Whoa!” said Dean. “Is he possessed, or is the dude about to be raptured?”

“What do you think that means, Cas?” asked Sam.

Cas looked between the brothers. “I must seek revelation, I think,” he finally said. And then, with no further explanation, he turned and walked off, his overcoat flying in the wind behind him like a pair of khaki wings.

“Does he do that?” asked Sam.

“He does that,” said Dean. “Not big on social skills. Though he seems to know everything. Like, I mean, _everything_.”

“Yeah, how the heck did he learn the angel language?” asked Sam, who stretched and yawned.

Dean shook his head. “I dunno, maybe he hangs out at new age crystal shops.” He regarded his sleepy brother. “Dude, rough night last night?”

“Insomnia. Just can't stay asleep when I want to,” grumbled Sam. 

“Insomnia?”

Sam waved his hands. “I'm just stressed. It'll pass. It'll pass.”

“You still gonna give me shit about going back to The Life?” asked Dean as they walked towards the parking lot.

“Well, maybe it's like you told me when you hitched up with GhostFacers, if you try to get away, it just sneaks up and bites you on the ass,” laughed Sam.

 

Castiel gazed up at the Holy Mother of God Erotic Dance Boutique's blinking neon sign. He strolled inside and settled into a private booth. The curtain on the window drew back to reveal a couple making out on a large bed. The male of the couple hopped off the bed and came to crouch by the window.

“Hey, baby bro!” he hailed, twirling his handlebar mustache.

“Hello, Gabriel,” said Cas.

“How ya doin'?”

“I am still finding my assignment to be most perplexing.”

“Why is that?” asked Gabe.

“I fail to understand humans, brother.”

“What’s so hard to understand? Take it from me, baby bro, humans are dead simple. They just wanna eat, drink and screw!” Gabriel ticked them off on his fingers.

“Be that as it may, I was just summoned to see Zachariah.”

“Oh, hey, you mind if I continue with my performance?” asked Gabriel. “Don't want Bunny to get cold.” The comely girl on the bed, at the sound of her name, waved cheerily at Cas.

“That's fine,” said Cas. “Hello, Bunny.”

“So, you saw Zachariah. What did that big windbag want?”

“It was time for my centennial performance evaluation, and I had many questions this time, none of which were really answered, I found, to my satisfaction.”

“Zach is a dickweed wrapped in a douche bag shrouded in fuckery,” grumbled Gabriel into Bunny's cleavage.

“I have found the Righteous Man, Gabriel.”

“Hey, cool. Anyone I know?”

“Dean Winchester.”

“Oooo,” said Gabriel, pausing in his work. “That kid you work with, right? He has one righteous a-“

“Gabriel!” snapped Cas.

“Sorry.”

“…But Zachariah did not want to pursue it. And there is another matter. It concerns Dean's brother, Sam.”

“What's the matter, you thinking threesomes now, Cas?”

“Uh.... What?” asked Cas. “No! Absolutely not.”

“You can tell me, little bro. In fact, tell me in great detail. I need some spicy stuff for the Bank of Wank!”

“For the...? Oh, no, Gabriel! Please pay attention to something besides your genitals.”

“Can't blame a guy for trying.”

“Gabriel, Sam Winchester has a client. He brought me before him, as he surmised the man to be possessed. But I now think there is something else going on. I believe one of our brothers intends to use him as a vessel.”

“Oh Father, tell me it's not Michael. He's such an old fart-knocker.”

“No, Gabriel. Not Michael. _Lucifer._ ”

“What? Okay, kid, you got rocks in your head. Lucy got spanked by Daddy and put in the corner a millennium ago. He ain't getting out of that one!”

“When I spoke to him in Enochian, the man said he was preparing the way for the vessel of the Light Bringer.”

“You know, Lucifer gave himself that nickname. Asshole.”

“There have been signs, Gabriel. And portents.”

“Portents schmortents! Prophecy is shit. What do the mandarins at headquarters say?”

Castiel's usually impassive features edged into something that may have been termed a pout. “They never tell me anything.”

Gabriel sighed. “Okay, look, I'll go make inquiries, see if any of my pantheon homeboys have heard anything.”

“Thank you, Gabriel. I-”

“What?” asked Gabriel when Cas paused for a long moment.

“Oh,” said Cas. “I don’t believe I have witnessed that particular sexual position prior to this.”

“Dude, you know the Kama Sutra? I was a consultant. Me and my main squeeze, Kali.”

“Yes, how is your, uh, better half?” asked Castiel.

“She’s fine and dandy, since I fucking smote that bitch, Azazel.”

“You do realize, Gabriel, that there is still much concern at headquarters regarding that particular murder? There was supposed to be a prophecy concerning the yellow eyed demon….”

“He disrespected my lady!” protested Gabriel. “He had to die.”

“Be that as it may…”

“You’re not gonna bust me to the man upstairs, are you?”

“Why would I, uh, bust you?”

“Oh, to get ‘exceeds expectations’ on your performance evaluation, or whatever.”

“I doubt that's in the cards no matter what I do,” sighed Cas.

“Well, piece of advice, little bro? If your orders seem to be shit, they probably are.”

“So, what should I do?”

“Go with your gut!”

“My gut?” asked Castiel, glancing down at his own stomach.

Gabe sighed and came to the front of the booth. “Ignore Zach and the birdbrains. Do what you think is right,” he told Cas.

 

Sam sighed and peered sleepily at the bedside alarm clock, though he almost didn't need to. 3 am, give or take. It was always 3 am, no matter what he did: exercise, herb tea, hot baths, cold showers, hypnosis tapes....

Sam had struggled with intermittent insomnia before, but it had never been so bad as the past few weeks. And the sleeplessness wasn't the worst part: it was the terrible feeling of dread that came over him. Did he pay his electricity bill? Had he remembered to turn off the oven? What was that twinge he felt in his chest?

He yawned and swung his long legs out of bed. It was surrendering, yes, but tossing and turning was the worst. He padded into the kitchen and switched on the burner under the kettle. He dropped a teabag in a mug, and then plopped down at the table, pulling a book out of one of the large stacks there. If he wouldn't be able to drop back to sleep for the next hour or so, he might as well get some work out of it, right? He gazed blearily at the law book. Damn, another year or so, he would probably need reading glasses, and then he'd never hear the end of it from Dean.

He chucked the book to the side and grabbed another and opened it more or less at random, just wanting something printed in a slightly bigger font. He scowled. He squinted.

And then he closed the book and looked at the cover, which had a large pentagram inscribed on it.

He opened the book again. No wonder the words had looked scrambled: it was written in Latin. 

Sam closed the book again and stared at it, now getting a little freaked out. He currently lived alone, as the result of a long story, the shortened version of which was that he and his on and off girlfriend, Jess, were taking yet another “break.” And he hadn't had anyone over for … well, probably longer than was healthy. He sure as fuck hadn't had a coven of witches over for a damn book club.

He thought of calling Dean, but then again, it was fricking 3 am. 3 am, and his life was weird.

The noise made him start. It was just the kettle whistling. He rose, shaking his head. One freaky client, and he was suddenly a mess. He flicked off the burner and poured steaming water over the teabag, enjoying the nice smell, lost in thought. He replaced the kettle and impatiently yanked at the teabag. Sam almost always drank weak tea, because he was never patient enough to let the stupid thing steep for three whole minutes. He grabbed a spoon out of the mismatched bunch in the silverware drawer and squished the bag against the side of the cup, and then dumped the damp bag on the little foil wrapper. And then he brought the mug to his lips and turned around.

The mug shattered as it hit the tile floor. Hot tea splashed on Sam's feet and ankles.

Sam did not move.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean leaned casually against the Impala. “Hey, Cas,” he said. He looked around, as he always did, for a car. Or a bicycle. Or a hovercraft. He guessed the guy walked here? Cas had purposely asked to meet him in kind of a remote spot along a rural highway. Maybe dude was a serial murderer? Wouldn't be the craziest thing that had happened to Dean this week.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me today, Dean,” said Cas. The voice always made Dean crack a smile. Though since the encounter with the dancing ghosts, and Cas slamming him back against the wall, Dean's mind drifted to what that voice sounded like, hushed, close to his ear. He shook his head, trying to banish his thoughts. This guy was a co-worker. No reason to mess things up.

“Okay, Cas, what's the big thing you gotta tell me?”

Cas nodded. He drew himself up. “Dean Winchester. Although I have presented myself to you in human form, I am not really a human.”

Dean squinted at Cas, trying to figure out the joke. If there was a joke. “Okay. I always suspected you were a man from Mars. Want me to take you to my leader?”

“What? Dean, please listen,” said Cas, who seemed absolutely and utterly serious. “I am an angel of the Lord. I am honored to reveal myself to you,” he added with a slight bow. He was silent for a moment, as if expecting something from Dean.

“What?” barked Dean.

“I said, I am an angel of the Lord.”

“Oh, blow me Cas!” said Dean. Cas looked utterly nonplussed. “Quit screwing around!”

“I am not certain how revealing myself to you is allegorical to sexual relations,” mused Cas, tilting his head like a dog asking for more treats.

“Cas…” Dean tried to control himself. “Look, you’re a nice guy, but are you off your meds or something?”

“I do not require medication, Dean. Nor do I need food nor sleep. As I told you, I am an angel.”

“No food…” Dean thought of something. “Wait! Hey, have you eaten today?” He squinted at Cas. He was a scrawny bastard, and he was looking particularly pale today.

“No. As I said, I do not require food.”

“That’s it, you’re probably just hypoglycemic or something. Come on,” he said, grabbing Cas by the arm. “I know a place. They have the best apple pie west of the Mississippi.”

“Have you actually sampled every other pie for comparison’s sake?” inquired Cas, who nevertheless obligingly got into the passenger seat and took off with Dean. They ended up in a diner located in the shadow of a water tower. Dean insisted Cas order coffee and a slice of apple pie. 

“Cas, so what's this crap about being an angel?” Dean asked around a mouth full of flakey pastry.

“You do not believe me, Dean?” asked Cas, his eyes pools of sadness.

“There is no such thing as angels, Cas. I don't care what Roma Fucking Downey says.”

Castiel stared. He was rather good at staring. “Dean, I fail to understand,” he said. “You and I have encountered ghosts, demons, vampires, werewolves, and other such creatures. Why can you not believe that angels too exist?”

“Aw, come on, Cas! Besides, if you think you're an angel, where are your little fluffy wings?” Dean made little flapping gestures with his hands.

“My wings are broad and powerful as one of your 747 jets,” said Cas, who sounded mildly offended.

“Wouldn't fit into the booth?” grinned Dean.

“They exist on another spiritual plane!”

“Cas, are you listening to yourself? Dude, I thought you were the one reasonable GhostFacer.”

“All right,” said Cas. He scowled and leaned forward, placing two fingers on Dean's forehead.

“What is that, a Jedi mind trick?” laughed Dean. Dean noticed with some puzzlement that he was now standing up.

And outside.

And the diner was gone.

And then Dean looked down.

“THE FUCK? Where the fuck are we?” he squealed. “How the fuck did we get here?”

“We are on top of the water tower,” sighed Cas who was standing beside him. “I conveyed us here. As I told you before, I am an angel of the Lord.”

“Cas, whatever the fuck you are, I'm not good with heights! How are we gonna get down?” asked Dean, edging back and frantically looking around.

“The same way we got up here, Dean. I will fly you.”

“You'll fly me? All right, Cas? First, that sounds kinda … kinky,” said Dean, as Cas' features screwed inward in puzzlement. “And furthermore, I am not good with flying either!” said Dean, who plonked down to sit cross-legged on the top of the tower, breathing hard.

“Dean, I am sorry,” said Cas softly, crouching down near him. “I.... I wasn't supposed to reveal myself to you at all. That is why I wanted some privacy for this conversation.”

“This is sure private,” muttered Dean.

“But I believe there is great danger, and I require your attention.”

“I'd be more attentive if I still had pie in front of me,” Dean protested.

Cas held out his hand to Dean. He was holding a slice of hot apple pie. With ice cream.

Dean momentarily forgot his fear. “Whoa, you can do that?” Cas nodded and handed over the plate. Dean glared at him. “So? Am I supposed to eat with my hands?”

Cas shook his head and handed over a fork and napkin. 

“Hey, thanks,” said Dean, tucking the napkin into his collar, and then starting in on the pie.

“Now, please, Dean, listen to me! I believe your brother may be in great danger!”

Dean paused in stuffing his face. “Wait, Sammy? Are you sure.”

“Unfortunately, I am not certain, Dean.”

“Aren't angels supposed to know everything?” asked Dean, considering his fork. “What's the deal?”

“No, we are not omniscient. That is a power granted only to our Father.”

“So, what do you know?”

“The angel who is trying to possess Sam's client? I have come to believe that angel is none other than Lucifer.”

“Wait, Lucifer? You mean the devil? Horns and pointy tail and all that bit?” Dean asked, holding two index fingers up on top of his head like twin devil horns, and dripping a bit of pie on the top of the water tower.

“Yes. Lucifer. Although he does not have horns. Nor a tail.”

“But you said an angel?”

“Lucifer is a fallen angel, Dean.”

“Oh, right,” said Dean, forking up more pie. He hadn't been terribly attentive in Sunday School, as he had spent most of the time trying to look down Miss Periwinkle's blouse. “Great, my little brother is Satan's lawyer. So, what do we do?”

“I'm afraid there is little I can do,” said Cas sadly.

“What? Why not! You're an angel. Don't you have a big flaming sword you could jam up his ass?”

“Unfortunately, my orders are clear. I.... I wasn't even supposed to have revealed myself to you.”

“What were your orders?” Dean’s head cleared enough to consider things. “In fact, wait a minute, if you’re a mighty angel, why the heck are you wasting time with the GhostFacers? I mean, Ed and Harry? Come on! Don’t you need to go … I dunno … smite something? Or play the harp? Or smite something with a harp?”

Cas straightened his shoulders. “My orders arose from up high. I was to join the GhostFacers team, and then await the arrival of the Righteous Man. As foretold in the prophecy.”

“Oh. Uh-huh. Righteous Man. Who's that?”

Cas smiled shyly. “That's you, Dean.”

“WHAT?” asked Dean, spitting apple pie everywhere. 

“You are the Righteous Man. As is written.”

“And what’s the Righteous Man supposed to do? And I bet it doesn’t involve eating pie and reading porn magazines.”

“You are fated to avert the apocalypse.”

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. This was getting to be too damn much. Cas was pretty cute when he tilted his head and blinked his baby blues like that, but come on. “Okay, okay, let's say I am the Righteous Man. So, what is my best angel pal supposed to do then?”

Cas paused for a moment, apparently making out who Dean’s best angel pal would be. He seemed to be pleased with the conclusion. “Um. I am supposed to … keep waiting.”

“WHAT!” Dean didn't spit pie this time, as he had stopped eating.

“And, um, I am supposed to watch you.”

“What, like when I'm in the shower?” Dean lifted an eyebrow.

Cas' face flushed cherry pie-red. “Dean. Believe me. You.... You don't want me to help you. I was supposed to intervene once before here on earth. And, to put it mildly, I messed up, very badly.”

“What happened?” asked Dean.

Cas was staring at the ground, looking crestfallen. “It was.... It was during the war. Your World War II. I was not in this vessel, I was in the guise of someone else, a Polish businessman named Vladislaus Sreginski.”

“Uh, is that a name of a crossword puzzle answer?” asked Dean.

“Anyway,” said Cas, “you can look it up. I let a lot of people....” Cas looked far away, and somehow, Dean couldn't bring himself to question him any further.

“So, in conclusion,” said Dean, “we got Satan in the House, and my friendly local angel can't do shit.”

Cas paused for a long moment, as he he were working something out in his head. He quite suddenly got a look on his face that, with anyone else, Dean would call “crafty.” “Dean I can... I am here for you, no matter what,” said Cas, looking around as if he might be overheard. “You are, after all, the Righteous Man, the one who was foretold. If you have need of me, just say my name. I will be there.”

“You mean like the Four Tops?”

Cas smiled shyly. “Castiel. Just say my name.”

 

_“Dude! You're gonna think I'm crazy....”_

Dean and Sam stared at each other for a long moment after greeting each other with the exact same words.

“Uh. Jinx?” said Dean. “What's your crazy-ass news?”

Sam sighed and sunk down into the booth opposite Dean, dropping his heavy satchel on the table. He put his head in his hands, sighing dramatically, and then looked up and waved a hand. “You first. I need my coffee.”

“Yeah, you're gonna need coffee,” said Dean, signaling the waitress.

“By the way, why didn’t you wanna meet at your favorite diner?” asked Sam. “The one with the pie?”

“Oh. Uh. Ended up sort of stiffing them last time. I kind of got abducted.”

“What?” asked Sam, running nervous fingers through his hair.

“By an angel.” The waitress thunked down two cups of coffee and both brothers jumped. 

Sam leaned forward. “What angel? Anyone I know?”

Dean sipped his coffee, unprepared for a response that didn't involve heavy questioning of his sanity. “Uh, you know him. You just don't know he's an angel.”

“Who?”

“Cas.”

“Is an angel?” asked Sam, who seemed frozen, spoon hovering over his coffee. 

Dean nodded. “GhostFacer Cas is really an angel named Castiel.”

“Well, okay, that makes sense,” mused Sam, who went back to stirring. 

Dean screwed his face up at Sam, who seemed unperturbed. “Dude, you don't think I'm off my rocker?” 

“What did he have to say? Angelically speaking?”

“You know how he said he thought your murderer was possessed by an angel?” Sam nodded. “Well, he got a name for me. Lucifer.”

Sam spat coffee across the table.

“Finally got a reaction,” said Dean, dabbing a napkin on his face. “Dude. Are you all right?”

“Man, you need to hear my weird thing then,” said Sam, who sat down his coffee, his hands trembling on the cup. “I got up at night. I told you I've been having trouble sleeping.”

“You need to pop a pill.”

“No. I don't need pills, Dean. Remember?” 

Dean nodded. “Aw. That was way back in college, Sam. And you were with that tweaker, girlfriend, whatshername, Amethyst?”

“ _Ruby_. And she wasn’t all to blame.”

“You’re better rid of her. And you’re not an addict, Sammy.”

“I have the personality. No pills. Anyway,” continued Sam, who wasn’t in the mood to bring up past disagreements, “I was in the kitchen and guess who showed up? Nick.”

“What? You sure it wasn't a dream or something?”

“No, because _this_ is definitely not a dream,” said Sam, hauling something out of his messenger bag. He plopped a large leather bound volume on the table. 

“Oh, cool,” said Dean, regarding the pentagram on the leather cover. “What is this, Ozzy Osbourne's biography or something?”

“It just appeared on my kitchen table! I looked it up on the internet. It's something called a grimoire.”

“That sounds spooky enough.”

“It's got stuff about how to raise demons!”

“And it just popped up in your house?”

“Yeah,” sighed Sam. 

“Could Jess have-?” But Sam silenced Dean with a look. “What?”

“Jess hasn't been around. We're.... We're taking a break.”

“What, again?” moaned Dean. “Dude!”

“Man, I just don't wanna get into it now, okay? I've got too much else going on!”

Dean sized up his brother. He did look frazzled. And like he needed a haircut. But mostly frazzled. “So, you said Mr. Creepy popped up at your place too. Is he still there?”

“No, that was pretty brief. He didn't even say anything. I told him, 'Go away,' and he kind of popped out. Or, um, I might have screamed it. It was late.”

“What do you think we should do?” asked Dean.

“Well, I know Latin pretty well from law school, but none of this makes sense. It reads like a cookbook, only they're using stuff like wormwood and frankincense in the recipes. Maybe we could get somebody who knows more about it?” Sam proposed. Dean hefted the book. “Like, maybe one of your GhostFacer buddies?”

“Those guys can't tie their shoes in the morning,” grumbled Dean, who nonetheless took the book. “Look, I'll try, okay? We'll figure this out. Don't worry.”

 

 

“What the fuck do you idjits think you're doing?”

Dean took one look at the bearded guy, who was currently staring down both Ed and Harry, and immediately decided he liked the old son of a bitch.

Ed had asked for a “skeleton crew” (namely, he and Harry, Spruce the cameraman, and Dean) to meet him at the last minute at some abandoned property that was supposed to be harboring a particularly vengeful and (they hoped) telegenic spook: the ghost of a teenage girl. But after some B roll, and some of the usual GhostFacer fumbling, they had been interrupted not by ectoplasm, but by a human guy who seemed like a force of nature.

“You ruined the take!” squealed Ed.

“I'll ruin more than that!” the old fart hollered. 

“Don't you know who we are?” snorted Harry.

The old man closed the distance between himself and Harry, going nose to nose, so close the frayed brim of his hat bumped Harry's forehead. “Yeah, I know who you clowns are. I seen you on my TV. Your idjit show is the reason I blew out my fucking screen with a shotgun!”

Harry gulped.

“Uh, you did what?” asked Ed, who had started looking nervous.

“You dumb shits! Going on television and telling any Tom, Dick or Britney Spears they can just grab some Morton's salt and go slay themselves a vampire. Do you know how many idjit's I've had to rescue recently just before they got themselves killed?”

Ed sniffed. “We always air a disclaimer not to try this at home.”

“Yeah? And how good you think that's gonna work with a bunch of drunk-off-their-ass teenagers?” asked the guy.

“Ed! Harry! We're losing the light again!” groused Spruce.

“Look, sir, we're getting a lot of money for this gig-” Ed began.

“Hunting ain't a gig, you dumb mother trucker! It's a profession. And you never take money for this! Never!”

“Guuuuys!” whined Spruce.

Ed nodded, and a chastened Harry fled the guy’s glower to come over to him. They conferred for a moment with Spruce. “Okay, look,” said Ed. “We not gonna get any more shots today. Why don't you take over from here Mr....?”

“Singer,” growled the old man. “I'm Bobby Fucking Singer, and you best not forget it.”

“Come on,” ordered Ed. “You too, Winchester.” Dean nodded, but lingered behind as Ed, Harry and Spruce fled towards their vehicles.

“Uh, Bobby was it?” Dean asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Who wants to know?” grumbled Bobby.

“My name is Dean Winchester.”

“Yeah, you with the idjit patrol, Dean Winchester?” snarled Bobby, inclining his head at the retreating GhostFacers.

“Well,” admitted Dean. “Sort of.”

“What the hell does 'sort of' mean?”

“Look,” said Dean, “this might seem kind of crazy-”

“Looking at you, I think it'll definitely be crazy, kid,” sighed Bobby, looking Dean up and down. Bobby Fucking Singer did not seem impressed.

“You said you were a professional at this?” Dean tried.

“Yeah?”

“Well, I've got a problem. A supernatural problem.”

“Oh! Supernatural! You wanna love charm for your girlfriend, boy?” grumbled Bobby, who turned and started to leave.

“No! This goes way up,” said Dean, running to intercept him. “We think we're tangling with Lucifer.”

“Lucifer, huh?”

“Yeah!”

“You one o' them, goth kids? I don't see no mascara,” scoffed Bobby.

“No....” said Dean.

“So you must be one of them heavy metal weirdos. I tell ya kid, take my advice, and quit spray-painting pentagrams and chanting for demons. You might not like what comes up.” And with that, Bobby Fucking Singer turned and stormed off.

“Shit,” muttered Dean as he saw Bobby climb into his battered old pickup truck and rumble away. “That didn't go well.” He stood and thought it over for a moment. The guy certainly seemed legit. Grouchy as all hell, but legit.

Dean nodded to himself and looked heavenwards. “Castiel? Hey, are you up there?” he asked. “I need you to come off your cloud!”

“Hello Dean.”

“Whoa!” said Dean, spinning around. “Well, that's quick service,” he added approvingly. “Have you been watching?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Okay, cool. The grumpy old guy? I want to follow him....”

 

When Bobby singer returned to his salvage yard, he was met by two men waiting beside a black Impala. One of them was the idiot headbanger he had just cussed out over on a job, and then there was another guy wearing a trench coat sitting on top of the car.

“Bobby,” said Dean. “I wanna introduce you to someone.”

“How the bloody hell did you kids get in here?” Bobby growled. “This is private property! I could shoot you if I had a mind to!”

“I don't think you'll have a mind to,” smiled Dean. “Bobby, this is my friend, Castiel. And he's an angel.” The guy in the coat hopped off the car and smiled blissfully at Dean when he was introduced.

“Why the hell would I wanna meet your damn boyfriend?” asked Bobby, to a very puzzled look from Castiel. “Look, I'll give you 'til the count of ten-”

“Cas,” said Dean. Cas nodded. “Water tower him.”

Cas shrugged and put two fingers on Bobby's forehead.

 

Dean leaned against his car and smiled smugly when Cas and Bobby blinked back into the scrap yard. 

“Sooooo?” said Dean, smiling like the cat that had caught the cherub.

“Gimme a minute,” said Bobby, who was glaring at Cas. “I got a couple tests, to see exactly what kind of critter you are. You don't mind now, do you?”

Cas sighed and shook his head resignedly. In return, he got splashed with water from Bobby's flask. He blinked, shook his head, and the water disappeared.

“Okay, holy water, check,” said Bobby, who now tossed salt on Cas, who once again sighed and shook it off. “Gimme your wrist,” ordered Bobby. Cas, who seemed to know what was coming, rolled up his sleeve and gave his arm over to Bobby, who immediately slashed him with a silver knife.

“Ouch!” said Dean sympathetically. “Do you gotta do that?”

“It's all right, Dean,” said Cas. He waved his hand over the cut, and the gash disappeared.

Bobby stood back, hands on hips, and regarded Cas for a few moments, scratching his beard. He spoke to Cas, but in a strange language Dean decided was probably Enochian. Cas replied. Bobby raised his eyebrows, and they went back and forth a couple of times, culminating in Cas saying something and, Bobby roaring with laughter and slapping Cas on the back. Cas actually smiled shyly.

“What was that?” asked Dean.

“It was a joke, Dean,” explained Cas. 

“Hey. Your friend is pretty damn funny!” said Bobby.

“He is?” asked Dean.

“It, uh, doesn't translate well from Enochian, I'm afraid,” Cas told Dean.

“Okay, so you got yourself a genuine angel. Now what?” asked Bobby.

“You understand, um, this is a secret?” Cas told him.

“He could get in big trouble with his bosses,” Dean explained.

“Yeah, I hate fucking bosses,” said Bobby sympathetically. “That’s why I only work for myself.”

Dean tried to summarize the last few days for Bobby, with Castiel adding occasional comments. They soon retired to Bobby's living room, which was absolutely packed with arcane literature. Dean grinned as Cas's eyes lit up, and then the angel often seemed distracted as he pottered around, trailing his long fingers along dusty book spines. Nerd angel heaven, Dean supposed. Cas had nice hands. Not that he was noticing or anything.

Dean pulled out the leather-bound volume that that shown up at his brother's residence. Bobby goggled.

“Well, why didn't you just show me this first thing, ya damn fools!” Bobby scolded.

“Uh,” said Dean.

“Can you identify it, Bobby?” asked Cas.

“Can I? This volume has been missing for centuries!”

“So it's a grimoire, or whatever the hell Sammy called it?” asked Dean.

“Kid, this ain’t just a grimoire. This here is the grimoire: the Grand Grimoire.”

“What's it supposed to be?” asked Dean.

“This is the book that supposedly had the conjurations to summon Lucifer himself,” said Bobby.

“Oh, shit,” said Dean, who exchanged a worried look with Cas.

Dean and Cas finally departed, leaving Bobby with the book, which he promised to research. They paused by the car. “You need a lift?” asked Dean. “Oh, right, you don't need a lift,” he muttered, somehow disappointed. He told himself he wanted to talk to Cas about Sam. Although, to be frank, he just wanted to talk to Cas. Period.

“You sure you’re not gonna get in trouble?” asked Dean, leaning up against the car. “I mean, telling Bobby?”

“Thank you for your concern, Dean,” said Cas sincerely “But I am sure of very little these days.” He experimentally leaned against the car as well. He was awkward, and a little too close, but Dean found he didn’t mind.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.” And to that, Cas smiled a quick little smile that made Dean’s heart skip a beat or two.

“Dean, I am growing concerned,” said Cas. 

“Well, Bobby seems on top of things,” said Dean. 

“Nighttime is when Sam appears to be most vulnerable to visitations, isn't that correct?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah.” But Cas was staring at him, as if he wanted Dean to figure something out. “Let's see. Maybe it would be better if I was to hang out with him? Tonight?” asked Dean.

“That is a good idea, Dean. And you remember...?”

“You'll come when I call?”

Cas nodded. 

“Hey, this Righteous Man business rocks,” smiled Dean. So, evidently Cas was cool with the helping-but-not-really-helping thing. “I'll bring pizza,” Dean promised, getting into the car.

“As I've told you-”

“You don't need to eat. No. But you'll like pizza,” Dean promised. “Maybe we can catch some videos.” With a wave, he hopped in his car, immediately realizing that a night of pizza and videos sounded oddly like he had just made a date. Well, he thought. Oh well.

 

“A Satanic slumber party,” said Sam, watching as Cas painted sigils all over his living room. Dean had called the angel when they ordered the pizza, as he supposedly needed to check whether the guy was a vegetarian. Sam, who knew his brother quite well, wondered if Dean didn't have any additional motivations, at least judging from the way he and the angel stared all googly eyed at one another. Cas seemed very impressed with Dean for some reason. Maybe he was an insane angel? Or just one with really, really bad taste?

“Guess I'll never get my deposit back now,” Sam joked. 

“Have some pizza!” Dean urged. “Hey, Cas! You should get a slice before it gets cold.”

The angel made a wry face, but paused in his work and curiously picked up a slice of pizza. He held it for a moment, regarding it as if it were some kind of science experiment.

“Come on. It won't bite you. As long as you bite it!” said Dean. Sam fussily handed Cas a cloth napkin, which the angel also regarded with some confusion.

“This is what my brother claims humans boil down to. Eating, drinking and.... Fornicating,” Cas concluded.

“That sums it up,” said Dean. “Wanna beer?” he offered, holding up a bottle. Cas frowned, but took it from Dean, giving it an experimental sniff.

“Tell your brother that's bullshit,” groused Sam.

“And how does your brother know, anyway, Cas?” laughed Dean. “He's another angel, right?” 

Cas nodded, but then looked concerned. “Uh. He's been down here. A while.”

“Yeah?” asked Dean. “Doing what?”

“He is an, um, adult entertainment professional,” said Cas.

“What?” asked Dean, who exchanged a puzzled glance with Sam.

“I should get back to warding the house,” muttered Cas, who set down his beer and pizza and moved off.

“Hey, you didn't finish your beer!” Dean called after him.

“Dean, do you think this is really accomplishing anything, other than maybe winning an art show competition?” asked Sam.

“Sammy, you say this sucker tends to pop up during the witching hour, right?”

“He did a grand total of once. And I'm starting to think that was just my imagination.”

“But what about the book?”

“The book. Yeah,” sighed Sam.

“And....” said Dean, grinning and digging into his athletic bag. He brought out something.

“Dean, is that what I think it is?”

Dean guffawed, setting up the camera. “I ganked it when Spruce wasn't looking. It's supposed to capture spooks.”

“Lucifer isn't technically a spook.”

“He's a.... Uh. I dunno. Some five dollar word Cas probably knows. Hey, Cas!” he boomed. There was no reply. “Hey, Castiel, angel of the Lord! Get your feathery butt in here.”

“Dean!” said Sam.

Dean noticed it as well. He could see his breath.

“Oh, so you brought your big brother along tonight!” grinned Nick, who was now leaning casually against Sam's kitchen counter. A panicked Dean somehow remembered to tick on the camera. 

“Will you protect little Sammy from the bad, bad monster?” Nick mocked. Sam blinked in surprise. He had never seen Nick like this. The man he knew as Nick Phosphoros was a shuffling wreck. This guy seemed … jocular. 

Dean was standing. “Whatever the hell you think you are, you stay the fuck away from Sam.”

“Oh, I'm so scared! What will you do, Righteous Man? Call your little pet angel to flutter over and nibble on my ankles?” 

“Cas?” asked Dean. 

“Brother,” said Cas, who had suddenly appeared in the kitchen. He was still clutching the cloth napkin Sam had handed him. He unfolded it on the table to reveal some kind of strange symbols, written in red ink. He slammed his hand down in the middle.

Nick had time to yelp, and then he was gone.

“We don't have much time,” said Cas, who was rolling down his sleeve. 

“Dude, is this written in your blood?” asked Dean, holding up the napkin. Cas nodded. “That's pretty hard core!”

“I have banished Lucifer for a short time,” said Cas. “Sam. You need to gather your things. Despite my efforts, your residence is not safe. You need to go elsewhere, for the duration.”

“How long is 'the duration’?” asked Sam.

“Sammy, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Dean. “Come on. You can stay at my place.”

“But your place is a science experiment gone wrong!” protested Sam, wrinkling his nose. Despite this, he reluctantly went to get his suitcase. Dean grabbed the camera off the kitchen table and tossed it into his gym bag. 

After a frantic round of packing, Sam and Dean had just gotten out Sam's front door with Cas and what Dean swore were way too many goddam suitcases – what was Sammy, a damn girl? - when they confronted a smirking, piggy-faced man, and two rather imposing guys at his side. They looked like bodyguards.

“Castiel? Tut tut. We need words about this!” said the little piggy man.

“Cas. Who is that douche bag?” Dean whispered to Cas.

“Zachariah,” Cas muttered. “My boss. Dean. Do as I say. Take Sam somewhere – anywhere – but here.” He started off, but Dean grabbed his arm.

“And what about you?” asked Dean.

“I'll.... I'll be in touch. Just get your brother away.”

“You busted, dude?” asked Dean.

“Just.... Just go,” urged Cas.

 

“Dude, what the hell is that growing in your shower?”

“I dunno,” laughed Dean as he entered his cluttered living room to find that Sam, who was sitting plopped on the couch in front of the TV, had vomited legal crap out all over the place. “Maybe I should grab one of my pipes, try to smoke it?”

“Gross, man,” sighed Sam, who already had piles of law books spread all over Dean's porn magazines on the three-legged coffee table. “And what the heck happened to this coffee table?” asked Sam.

“Here ya go,” said Dean, grabbing a stack of law books and shoving them under the legless corner.

Sam shook his head and continued writing on a yellow legal pad, big book open in his lap. “So. You hear anything from Cas?”

“No. Nothing today,” sighed Dean. There hadn't been filming with GhostFacers scheduled today, so he'd put in a full day at the garage instead. It had been wearying, but he had to admit, it was somehow relaxing to spend a day dealing with carburetors and differentials instead of freaky-ass shit.

“I just wanna know how long this is gonna last,” said Sam. “You leave me here another day, so help me, I'm gonna start cleaning.”

“No, not that,” joked Dean, who popped open a beer and thumped down on the threadbare couch next to Sam. “So, you show that video of Nick hanging out in your kitchen to Henricksen?”

“Why do you think I’m here?” sighed Sam, who was wearing sweat pants and a T shirt instead of his snappy lawyer suit.

“What do you mean? What happened?” asked Dean.

“I’m on administrative leave. Until further notice. I’m evidently, officially, the victim of stalking.”

“Oh. Henricksen explain how Nick got out of lockup and onto your kitchen table?” asked Dean.

“Yeah, that’s a very good question.” Sam shook his head. “The only reason I haven’t been reassigned from the case is there’s now not a lawyer in the department who will take it on.”

“Henricksen?”

“Including Henricksen.”

Dean grinned. He grabbed the remote control from under a law book.

“Hey, wait! I'm watching this!” protested Sam, who grabbed away the remote.

“What the hell is this?” grumbled Dean. Sam's entertainment choices were often lacking in cheerleaders and long in the “educational” bent.

“Pretty interesting, actually,” Sam told him. “It's a documentary about Vladislaus Sreginski. He was one of the 'righteous' during World War II.”

“Where have I heard that name before?” muttered Dean.

“You? No fucking clue where you woulda heard it,” chuckled Sam. “He was like a Schindler. Really weird case. Everybody says he was a complete jerk before the war, then the war came, and he rescued thousands of people. But then afterwards....”

“He went back to being an asshole?” asked Dean, who was suddenly, and weirdly, paying attention. 

“Yeah, it was like he was in a fugue state or something! That's why they say he didn't get the same attention as Schindler, he made a lot of enemies after World War II ended. Even made some anti-Semitic remarks. Strange guy.”

Dean stared at the television. “That’s Cas!” he suddenly shouted.

“Uh, what? You’re calling Cas?” asked Sam.

“No! That's where I recognize the weird name. Cas told me he used this guy as his vessel during the war! But he messed up really badly somehow.”

“Huh. Well, he seemed to do ok here,” said Sam. They sat in silence for a time, the law book on Sam's lap forgotten, and stared at the History Channel, listening as the narrator raved about newly unearthed photos.

“Whoa!” said Dean, pointing to the television with his beer. “Did you see what I see?”

Sam had already clicked the remote. He wound back the show.

“There it is, there it is, hit pause!” said Dean. “No, wait. Forward. There!”

Both of them leaned forward and stared at the face of the Nazi officer. “Wow,” said Sam. “Is that…?”

“I think so. Yeah,” said Dean.

 

“Dean, with all respect, I shouldn't be here,” Cas apologized as he materialized near the moss-covered barbecue grill in Dean’s back yard.

“You're not supposed to help us, right?” asked Dean.

Cas gulped. “Yes, that's correct. That has been made abundantly clear,” he added, flicking his eyes upwards.

“Well, you're not helping us today. We're helping you!”

“What do you mean?” asked Cas, but Dean was already ushering the angel inside his house, carefully shutting the door behind them. 

“Hey Cas!” said Sam, looking up from his laptop.

Cas looked around in confusion. He put his hands to his ears. “Something is wrong! I... I can no longer hear the host.”

“Cool, it works then,” said Dean. 

“Bobby gave us some sigils to keep angels from spying on us,” Sam explained.

“Bobby did?” asked Cas. Sam and Dean nodded. “He is very clever. For a human.”

“Look, Cas, you told me during World War II you used some guy named Vladislaus Sreginski as your human ride?” asked Dean. He pointed to Sam's laptop, which had a picture of Sreginski up on the screen.

“He served as my vessel, yes,” said Cas sadly, reaching over to touch the picture. “It was.... It was my greatest failure.”

“But he saved thousands of people,” said Sam. “You saved thousands of people from the Nazi death camps.”

“Sam. Eleven million people. Eleven million souls, extinguished,” said Cas. “Jews, Romani, gays, dissidents....”

“But, you couldn't possibly save all of them,” reasoned Sam.

“I could have done better,” Cas barked at him, his eyes flashing. 

“Look, Cas. Whoa, simmer down,” said Dean, holding Cas by the shoulders. “Anyway, look who we found at the concentration camp,” said Dean. “Show him, Sam.”

“These are newly unearthed photos,” said Sam. “Seem familiar?”

Cas stared. “That's....”

“Heinrich Himmler. And Zachariah,” said Sam.

“Your boss man,” said Dean.

Cas stared at the computer screen, his eyes wide. “You..... You can't be certain.”

“I was curious,” said Sam, clicking the mouse. “So I did some digging. Look at this photo from a Siberian internment camp.”

Cas blinked at the screen. 

“And here's one from the genocide in Laos. Cambodia. This is from Ethiopia. Chile in 1974. Rwanda. It just goes on and on.”

Cas stared. So many mass killings. And it was the same, in every case. Many blurry photos, but all undeniably pictured the same person. Zachariah.

“Cas, dude,” said Dean. “I dunno, you ask me, if you got shit from old Zach about stuff you did as Sreginski, I don't think he was pissed that people died. I think he was pissed that you _saved people._ ”

“From him!” chimed in Sam.

“Why would he…. I do not understand,” Cas muttered. “Dean I must…. I must go confront Zachariah with these accusations!”

“Whoa!” said Dean. “Hold on, before you flap off. Suppose you do confront Zach. What do you think will happen?”

“He will have a reasonable explanation,” said Cas confidently. He watched as Dean and Sam shared a skeptical look. “Or…. Or he will admit his perfidy!”

“Just like that?” asked Sam.

Cas sunk down on Dean’s ratty couch, looking a little lost. “What do you think I should do?” he asked the brothers. “I am a soldier, Dean. I have never excelled at bureaucratic infighting.”

“Well, it’s not every day I get asked for advice by an angel of the Lord,” mused Dean, sinking down next to Cas. “Is there anybody else you can talk to?” He glanced at Sam. “You mentioned you have a brother?”

“Gabriel!” said Cas, who perked up. “Yes, we should go seek his guidance!”

“Uh, we?” asked Dean.

 

Dean had managed to talk the increasingly frantic angel into driving instead of getting his ass flown all over the city. Dean had to admit flying was convenient, but it upset his stomach almost as much as flying in an airplane.

He paused outside the building, looking up at the blinking neon. “Holy Mother of God…” he began. “Cas, you weren’t lying when you said your brother works in the adult entertainment industry!”

“Why would I lie about such a thing?” asked Cas, who seemed a bit hurt at the notion.

“No, it’s just…. Not quite what I’d picture for an angel.”

“My brother has gone … a bit native over the centuries,” explained Cas, who hurried into the building as if he were a frequent visitor. Dean followed him in and through the main room, which was as you’d expect, lots of rowdy drinkers and girls writhing around on poles. Cas went through a door at the back labeled “Private booths.”

“Oh, no! No way!” said Dean who halted at the doorway to the booth. “You don’t have two dudes go into a booth together.”

“Come along, Dean. We haven’t much time,” said Cas, who gripped Dean tightly by the arm and dragged him into perdition. Once again, Dean was taken aback by how strong Cas was.

“Hey, I’m on my break!” came a voice.

“Gabriel!” said Cas. To Dean’s surprise, there was a guy behind a glass window, hanging out on a bed, eating taffy. There were candy wrappers all around him. 

“Cas? You brought reinforcements?” Gabriel asked. He hopped off the bed and came up to the window. Dean noticed he was wearing the world’s worst fake mustache.

“You’re an angel?” asked Dean.

“Holy shit!” said Gabriel, tearing off the mustache. “You’re the Righteous Man! Cas, dude, you shouldn’t have brought him here.”

“Gabriel, we urgently require your assistance!” said Cas, just as the ground began shaking.

“Shit!” said Gabriel. “Did they follow you here?” The lights had started flickering, and Dean heard a distant tremble.

“Did who follow me here?” asked Cas, just as a bit of plaster from the ceiling hit him in the head.

“Cas-“ said Dean.

“Cas!” shouted Gabriel. “The back door! Run!” And then he disappeared.

Cas grabbed Dean’s arm, and began half dragging him out of the booth as the ground rocked and reeled. The lights flickered out, and then Dean noticed all was lit up by a weird glow.

“Cas, what-“

“Close your eyes, Dean!” Cas shouted as they reached the back door. Dean heard a boom as the building’s foundation cracked. And then Dean felt himself flung through the air. He landed hard on the pavement, and suddenly there was a weight on top of him.

He blacked out, maybe for a few seconds, maybe for an hour, but when he came too, he felt like he was being smothered.

“Are you injured,” Dean?” came Cas’ voice. Dean realized the weight on his back had been Cas, who was now rolling off of him. Dean took a big breath and pushed himself off the ground into a sitting position. He choked: there was a lot of dust in the air. He looked around. There were ruins surrounding him: presumably all that remained of the Holy Mother of God Erotic Dance Boutique.

“What the hell was that? Was that Lucifer?”

“I don’t know, Dean,” admitted Cas. 

“Where is he now?”

“Perhaps Gabriel has dealt with him. I have not sensed my brother’s presence since the explosion.”

Cas extended a hand, and Dean carefully got to his feet. He looked down at himself: everything seemed to be present and accounted for. And then he looked up at Cas, who had evidently taken the brunt of the impact: he was covered, head to toe, with dust, and was bleeding from a couple of bad cuts.

“Hey, you’re hurt,” said Dean.

“It’s not of import,” said Cas. “I will repair my vessel.” He closed his eyes and appeared to concentrate for a second, but then opened them, blinking in apparent confusion. He reached down and pulled up his shirt, and put his fingers on a deep cut in his side. He held up his hand, squinting in confusion at the blood that had seeped to his fingers. “Why didn’t that work?” he asked, more to himself than anything.

“Having trouble with the angelic batteries?” asked Dean, who suddenly had a mental picture of Cas hooked up to the Impala via jumper cables. 

Cas looked around, although his eyes seemed to be out of focus. “I… I can no longer hear the angelic host.”

“What does that mean?”

“I think I have been cut off from them. Cut off from heaven’s power,” Cas whispered, shaking his head as if he didn’t believe it.

“Look,” said Dean. “I think we need to get out of here now.” Sirens had started to wail in the distance. “We’ll go back to my place, get you cleaned up, and figure this out. Come on.”

Cas nodded and, somewhat reluctantly, followed Dean to the car, shaking off plaster as he walked.

 

“Ow!”

“It's just iodine!” sighed Dean. “Come on,” he urged, reaching for Castiel's arm. After far too much bickering, the angel had been divested of his shirt and jacket, and now sat on Dean’s bed, holding his arm protectively over his wounded side.

“I do not like pain, Dean!” said Cas, stubbornly keeping his arm plastered to his body. “It is … unpleasant!”

“Don't be a damn baby!” Dean grumbled. He thought it over, grabbing once again unsuccessfully at Cas’ arm. “Look. Think of something else.”

“What else should I think about?” asked Cas, relaxing somewhat.

“I dunno. Hot angel chicks?” grinned Dean.

Cas looked momentarily distracted, before snapping, “Dean! I am not supposed to think of things of that nature.”

“Oh, so there _are_ hot angel chicks?” grinned Dean.

“Why would you want me to think of- Ow!” Cas bellowed.

“There,” said Dean, who had many years of practice mending cuts and scrapes on unwilling individuals. “Bandage!” he ordered, holding up a dressing.

Cas glared, but this time voluntarily raised his arm so Dean could smooth the bandage over the cut in his side. “Consider yourself lucky you didn't need stitches.”

“You appear to derive some amount of enjoyment out of this,” grumbled Cas.

“Aw, I'll get you a lollipop. Okay. Now, leg!” said Dean, pointing at the cut on Cas's thigh.

Cas reluctantly scooted around on the bed.

Dean sighed dramatically. “Cas, no. You're gonna have to take off your pants.”

“What? No!” said Cas.

“Cas, TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS!”

“Am I … interrupting anything?” grinned Sam from the doorway.

“Angels are pigheaded!” said Dean as he and Cas glowered at one another.

“Hey, guys, what's going on?” laughed Sam.

“We need to clean up his cut!” said Dean, pointing at Cas's leg.

“Your brother is a terrible exponent of the healing arts!” said Cas. “With…. With overtones of sadism!”

“I've never seen someone fuss so much over a fucking boo-boo,” said Dean. “What, you want me to kiss it?”

“Dean,” cautioned Sam, who caught Cas' look of utter horror. He signaled for his brother to shut the fuck up. He knelt down beside Cas, so that he was at eye level with the angel. “Cas,” he said softly. “Okay, look, I know you're upset that you've been cut off from the other angels and you're going through this. And, it sucks. What my brother is doing in his clumsy, awkward, fucked up way is trying to help you. And if you don't let Dean treat you, your leg will get infected and then they'll have to cut it off and then instead of flying you'll have to hop around and trust me, that will really suck.”

Cas peered at Sam, and then, steeling himself, nodded grimly. He got up, kicked off his shoes, and started to unzip his pants. Dust flew everywhere. 

“Good!” said Dean. “And then we can get your ass cleaned up!” he continued, waving at the bathroom.

“Uh,” said Sam, who was not looking forward to that argument. “I'll go find him some clean clothes. Or whatever passes for clean in this place.”

“Just don't touch my Metallica T-shirt!” Dean hollered after him.

 

Sam returned from the laundry room some time later (as it took some time winnowing out his brother’s apparently elaborate system for separating clean from soiled laundry) to the sound of the shower running.

“Don't get your bandages wet!” Dean was yelling at the closed door.

Sam heard Cas mutter something, but he couldn't make it out. “I found some of your clothes. They might be a little big,” he told Dean.

“Don't tell me, tell Soapy McSoaperson,” grumbled Dean, pointing at the door.

The water shut off.

Sam went and rapped on the door. “Cas! It's Sam. I got clean clothes for you to try on!” he yelled.

“Okay, Sam!” came the answer. So Sam sauntered right into the bathroom, closing the door after him. Dean listened for a commotion, but heard nothing. Sam emerged a couple minutes later.

“Wait,” Dean whispered, “why is he okay with you but not with me?”

Sam laughed. “Maybe because I'm not always checking out his ass.”

“I wasn't checking out his ass.” Sam cocked an eyebrow at Dean. “And … what if I was?” Dean added.

“He's an angel, Dean. Not a cocktail waitress!” grinned Sam.

“Look, if God didn't want me checking out his ass, why did He make it … so check out-able?” Dean asked waving his hand.

Sam was gearing up to answer this theological inquiry when the bathroom door opened and Cas emerged, looking somewhat like a drowned rat, hair dripping wet, and now wearing a loose-fitting pair of jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt.

And underneath the unbuttoned flannel, a Metallica T-shirt.

Dean flashed a look of fiery vengeance at his brother, who merely grinned. “Thank you, Sam,” Cas was saying.

“They're my clothes,” Dean rumbled.

“Thank you, Dean,” said Cas.

“Try not to bleed on them,” scolded Dean. As the opening chords of “Orion” blared from his pocket, Dean grabbed his cell phone. “Hey, Bobby, what’s up? Yeah? Okay, we’ll be there. Yeah, I’ll bring beer.” He looked at Sam and Cas. “Get your shoes on, angel. Bobby’s been able to crack that Ozzy biography book, and he says it’s interesting.”

“Who is Ozzy?” asked Cas.

“The only person Dean respects over James Hetfield,” laughed Sam. “I need to find him some clean socks in your laundry room of doom.”

“What’s wrong with my laundry room? It’s elegantly organized!” said Dean.

“Do you have Metallica socks, Dean?” inquired Cas as they made for the laundry room.


	3. Chapter 3

After a bit of brotherly bickering, Cas was outfitted in only slightly mismatched socks. Dean claimed it didn’t matter, as the guy didn’t seem to know how to knot his own necktie, as long as the shoes matched. He ended up wearing a pair of Dean's boots that Dean had always found a bit too tight anyway.

They arrived at Bobby’s after a pit stop at a liquor store and then at the local burger barn when Cas confessed that he thought he was feeling hunger (this was attested to by a pronounced if mortifying stomach growl). 

Bobby thanked them for the beer, but remarked, “You boys eat this crap?” to a selection of greasy burgers. He grumbled a little, but grabbed a big pink bottle of Pepto Bismol, and sat down and ate with them.

“So, Bobby,” said Dean, wiping secret sauce from his chin with a paper napkin, and then leaning over to do likewise for a rather pleased looking Cas, “give us The Grand Grimoire in fifty or less.”

“Well, first things first. There’s evidently two ways of calling up Lucifer.”

“The Satan Plan B?” asked Sam.

“Yessir. I guess the word is he’s not just down in hell, but he’s also locked up down there somehow.”

“That is what my brother told me,” said Cas, mouth full of curly fries.

“So, you’re into this eating thing?” asked Dean, upending the cardboard curly fry container on a NASCAR place mat.

As if in answer, Cas stifled a burp. Bobby passed over the Pepto Bismol, which Cas examined with much curiosity. “He gave you a monster burger, kid. You’re gonna need that.”

“So, you have to jailbreak Satan?” asked Sam.

“Yep,” said Bobby. “The first way is pretty elaborate,” he said, pointing to the Grand Grimoire, which was now studded with many exotic colors of post it notes. “It involves running around breaking something called a seal. And you have to break at least 66 of them. So fucking elaborate, I doubt anyone would be fool enough to try it.”

“Sounds like the plot of a grade Z horror movie,” mused Dean.

“So, the other choice,” said Bobby, “you pump yourself up by ‘consuming souls,’ and then you just go break the fellow out.”

“Souls are like metaphysical steroids?” asked Sam.

“Why, yes, if you are referring to anabolic steroids, as used illicitly by some human athletes, then the analogy is very apt!” said Cas, ladling ranch sauce on his curly fries. “Now, as for corticosteroids or sex steroids....”

“That's probably more information than we need there, Cas,” said Dean. 

“Aside from the biochemistry lesson, souls … they make you powerful?” asked Sam.

“You would need to know the appropriate incantations of course,” Cas mused, wiping a bit of Pepto Bismol from the side of his mouth. “And collecting souls is not an easy task! The number it would take....”

He trailed off. He turned pale.

“Jesus!” said Sam, who had just come to the same conclusion. “Zachariah!” 

Cas had leapt out of his chair. “I need to go,” he said, but then looked around in confusion. As the realization took hold, he sadly sank back down at Bobby's kitchen table, head in his hands. 

“Wings got clipped, dude?” asked Dean, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He reached over to pat Cas's arm, but Cas wrenched out of his grasp. “Hey, it's OK.”

“Nothing about this is okay, Dean,” said Cas. “Don't you understand? What Zachariah is plotting.... It could mean the apocalypse.”

“Okay, apocalypse sounds not good at all,” said Dean, utilizing infallible Winchester logic. “In fact, bad maybe.”

“What the hell is going on?” asked Bobby.

“Cas's boss, Bobby. Zachariah, the angel-in-chief,” said Dean. “Sammy caught him crowd surfing at all the greatest genocides of the Twentieth Century.”

“Cas' boss?” asked Bobby, staring at the angel.

“We think he was actually working against Cas during World War II,” said Sam.

“For the Nazis?” asked Bobby. Sam and Dean nodded. “God damn.”

“He has spent the last century gathering souls so he might free Lucifer. I must find a way to stop him,” said Cas. He had pulled the grimoire over to him and began flipping morosely through it. 

“You know these spells, Cas?” asked Dean.

“This was not my speciality, Dean. For many eons, I was a soldier.”

“How did you pull the 'watching for the Righteous Man' duty then?” asked Dean.

“I was, as humans might say, transferred to a new department,” said Cas. “That is how I happened to occupy Sreginski.” He stopped thumbing through the book and stared at it for a moment. “Bobby. Have you marked this book in any way?” he asked, holding it up to the light.

“What? Of course not!” said Bobby. “I don't mark my books! And I'll shoot anyone who dog-ears a corner!”

“What is it Cas?” asked Dean.

“I believe the latest caretaker of this book might have left a mark of some kind,” said Cas. He puffed out his breath and placed the book down. “Angels are very powerful, so sometimes, objects in their possession will pick up distinctive signs from them.”

“This has angelprints? You think it was Zachariah?” asked Dean.

“That makes sense!” said Sam. “He was probably preparing the way for Lucifer.”

Cas put a hand through his hair. “I can't see. I should have thought to look before. If I had access to my powers....”

Bobby grabbed the book. “You just wanna look at the watermark, so to speak?” Cas nodded. Bobby grinned. “Well, I may be just a idjit human, but I have a spell for that!”

“Bobby, you're awesome sauce,” said Sam.

“Ah, crap,” said Dean, taking out his cell phone as a Master of Puppets ringtone sounded. “Yeah, Ed, how ya doin'? Spruce is missing a camera? Aw, shit, that's too bad. Do you think-? Who, me? Hey, well, gosh, that's a possibility I suppose....”

“Oh, no, busted,” Sam whispered to Cas. Cas squinted at Dean, almost as if he expected an explosion.

Dean hung up the phone and rolled his eyes. “Emergency, guys. I gotta go make nice with the boss men.”

“Well, I could get started on the spell to figure out whose angelic fingerprints are on that book,” said Bobby.

“Can I help?” asked Sam. “It sounds kind of cool.”

“Yeah, I could use another set of hands,” Bobby told him.

“Would you like me to accompany you, Dean?” asked Cas. “Sometimes, I can … reason with Ed and Harry.”

“You're volunteering to save my sorry ass?” Dean grinned.

“Um....” said Cas, who looked mildly flustered. “Your...?”

“It's just an expression,” said Dean, who yanked Cas out of his chair. “Come on. Sooner we get to Ed's garage, sooner we can get the hell out of there.” 

Sam and Bobby watched them go, Bobby wearing a puzzled expression. “So,” Bobby said after they had heard the Impala fire up and pull out of the driveway. “That GhostFacer boy, Ed, runs an auto shop?”

Sam burst out laughing. “No, he literally means a garage. They run GhostFacers out of Ed's parents' garage.”

“His parents' garage? How the hell old is he?” asked Bobby. 

Sam only chuckled again. “I shouldn't give Dean hell. Though I do. Our family, you see, mostly our mom’s side, used to do what you do. At least that’s the family lore. So when she passed away, Dean thought it would be a great idea to carry on the family tradition. But Ed and Harry: I don’t know if he realized what he was in for.”

“Kid’s got patience of a saint. Would have ripped them both a new one by now.” 

“They’re not bad guys. They just get a little … over enthusiastic I think.”

Bobby leaned forward conspiratorially. “And, 'scuse me if it ain't my business, but your brother and that angel....” 

“Beer?” asked Sam, holding out a hand. Bobby handed a bottle to Sam, who untwisted the cap and then took a very healthy swig. “I don't know,” Sam confessed, leaning backwards in his chair. “I don't know if even Dean knows. My brother can be kind of an idiot.” Bobby snorted with laughter. “Actually, he can be a pretty complete idiot. But these past couple of weeks, he’s seemed, you know, what’s the word, _smitten?_ ”

“Yeah, smitten. It's like wantin' to scratch an itch lookin' at them.”

Sam shook his head. “Anyway, you want to start on that spell, Bobby? I think I need a distraction.”

“Yeah, me too,” laughed Bobby, going to grab some ingredients. “So you’re a college boy, Sam? I don’t suppose you know any Latin?”

“Hell yeah! A law degree is not completely useless!” grinned Sam.

 

“You’ll wait for- You’ll wait for us to get back, right? Sam? Wait. For. Me. To. Get. Back. Yeah. Look, I realize casting spells is really … wicked awesome? Okay. But we’re almost at Ed’s house, so you two wait up? Right? Sammy?” Dean frowned and tossed his cell phone back on the dash. “So, I guess Sam and Bobby drank some beer, and managed to get the angel mark off that book.”

“That’s good news, Dean.”

“And then they drank some more beer, and decided they’re going to summon him.”

“Oh,” said Cas. He stared out the window. 

“Uh, is it just me, or is that a really, really fucked up idea?” asked Dean.

“That is a really … fucked up idea, Dean.” Cas’ cheeks flushed pink as he said it, but seemed terribly pleased with himself.

“You don’t have to curse, dude. That’s just how I talk.”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with how you talk, Dean,” Cas countered instantly.

“Yeah, but isn’t there some crap somewhere in the bible about not cursing out your mother, or something?”

“Dean, please remember, I am a soldier. You should have heard the things my brothers, Uriel and Balthazar, would say. Especially after they had been drinking.”

“Angels get drunk?”

“It requires the consumption of copious amounts of alcoholic beverages. But it is convenient being able to turn water into wine.”

“Oh, so you get drunk?”

“I could, theoretically-“

“Hold it, Cas. You’re telling me you’ve never been drunk?”

“I’ve just never had … the occasion,” said Cas, looking deeply embarrassed.

“But your brothers did?”

“I am…. I am a traditionalist. Of a sort,” said Cas.

“Well, damn, after this crap is over, we need to take you out and get you smashed!”

Cas's eyes searched Dean. “Why do you wish to see me inebriated, Dean?”

“No reason!” said Dean quickly. Cas peered at him intently. “Uh, you lookin’ into my soul again?”

Cas sighed and turned away. “Unfortunately, as I am cut off, I no longer have that power.”

“Good,” said Dean, which evoked another soul-stare from Cas. Dean turned up the stereo.

“What is the music you’re listening to, Dean?”

“Dude, this isn’t just music,” said Dean reverently, “this is Metallica. Like on your T-shirt. My T-shirt,” he added somewhat sourly.

Cas pulled out his T-shirt and regarded it curiously, trying and failing to position his head so he could read the logo right-side up.

 

“Daaaaad! I’m having an important personnel meeting,” whined Ed.

“I gotta garage the boat for the winter,” grumbled Mr. Zeddmore, pointing to the large trailer attached to his Subaru. “Have your club meeting somewhere else, Eddie.”

“It’s not a club,” Ed muttered under his breath, though he nonetheless signaled Harry, Dean and Cas to accompany him down to the end of the Zeddmore’s broad driveway. “I have a TV contract,” he added as he plopped down to sit on the curb, elbows on his knees, head in hands.

“Yeah, for the Italian Home Cooking Channel,” Dean reminded him, despite a warning look from Cas.

“Um, but you received solid ratings among the male aged 55 to 62 demographic, Ed,” Cas encouraged.

“Oh, don’t bother,” sighed Ed, waving a hand. “This show is not what I wanted it to be.”

“Ed, quit being emo,” scolded Harry. 

“No, I’m a failure,” moaned Ed, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You know what I really wanted to do?”

“Oh, Ed, not this again, please,” sighed Harry, who nevertheless braced for the inevitable.

“ _Caught on Tape!_ ” said Ed. Harry groaned.

“What is … Caught on Tape?” asked Dean, despite Harry frantically waving his hands for silence.

“We would pursue evildoers the world over! And, when we had them in our sights, we would leap out and declare, “Sir, I am Ed Zeddmore, and you have been _caught on tape!_ ”

“Well, that's … punchy, I guess,” said Dean.

“Ed, you’re going worldwide now? Do you even have a passport?” sighed Harry.

“You're being undermining again!” shot Ed. “This is just what my therapist warned me about-”

“Ed,” said Cas softly.

“What, Cas?” asked Ed, who seemed to have suddenly shrunken from blustering to self-pity again.

“What if we could offer you film of something truly unique?” asked Cas.

“Cas-“ warned Dean.

“What do you mean?” asked Ed.

“An angel of the Lord,” said Cas.

“Cas, are you off your meds?” demanded Harry.

“No,” said Cas, sitting down on the curb next to Ed. “As it happens, an acquaintance of ours is even now summoning a very powerful celestial being named Zachariah. I think it would be … entertaining to get him on camera. Don’t you think, Dean?”

“Caught on camera, red-winged,” said Dean, grinning and nodding at Cas. 

 

“Uh, Bobby…” said Dean.

“We almost got ‘er,” Bobby announced as he and Sam ran around the scrapyard throwing seemingly random elements into a big bowl. From the smell of his breath, it appeared Bobby had imbibed copious quantities of alcohol since Dean had seen him last. “Oh, who the hell you got piled in that clowncar?” Bobby said as he witnessed the three guys who had just piled out of the back of the Impala. 

“Can you move the bowl over there?” demanded Spruce, who was peering through a video camera. “The light is better.”

“What the holy hell are these idjits doing on my property?” wailed Bobby, grabbing the bowl protectively and glaring at Ed, Harry, and Spruce, who they'd just stopped to pick up at his auntie's house.

“Bobby, I still need to report to the upper management at my headquarters,” Cas explained, nodding upwards. “It would be a great favor to me if you would let the GhostFacers capture him on camera, admitting to his misdeeds.”

Bobby squinted at Cas, and then glowered over to Ed and Harry, who had just knocked something over with a loud clang. “Only for you, kid. But they shut the fuck up. And keep your damn hands off my shit!” he added.

“Did you manage to determine the angelic mark on the book?” Cas asked Bobby.

“Yup, clear as day! And now we’re gonna summon the bastard. Sam and I are just gathering the right groceries.”

“I gotta ask, but is this a good idea, Bobby?” asked Dean, holding up one of many empty beer bottles that now littered Bobby’s front yard. “Zachariah is pretty powerful, and Cas is out of angel juice.” Cas frowned, but nodded.

“I got the mystery ingredient,” laughed Bobby, holding up a jar of what looked like olive oil.

“Uh, you’re gonna make a salad?” asked Dean.

“That’s holy oil, ya nitwit,” grinned Bobby.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I should have recognized it,” said Dean.

“If you light the oil on fire, in a circle, a celestial being is prevented from escaping,” Cas explained to Dean.

“Oh, so it's like your Kryptonite!” Dean told Cas.

Cas seemed to search through his memories. “Angels are not refugees from the planet Krypton, no,” he finally told Dean. “And we have little to do with Marlon Brando.”

“You idjits get the hell out of my way!” Bobby barked and Ed and Harry, who cringed. 

“Is Bobby ever in a good mood?” Ed whispered to Dean as he and Harry ran over to huddle behind him.

“No,” said Dean.

“Bobby, may I see the book?” asked Cas. “I would like to view the angelic mark.”

“Yeah, it’s inside,” said Bobby. “Ask Sam. He’s gone in to get more stuff.” Cas nodded and disappeared inside Bobby’s residence.

“I got the unicorn snot, Bobby!” said Sam, who had just come banging out the door with a mason jar full of greenish goo.

“All right, everybody, stand the fuck back, we’re doing a damn summoning here!” Bobby announced.

Dean, Harry, Ed, and Spruce (who was still taking everything in through his camera) gathered close as Bobby hovered over a bowl placed on a card table in the middle of the scrap yard. He tossed a match into the bowl, which caused a pretty impressive flare of fragrant orange flame.

“Your turn, kid,” Bobby told Sam, who held up an old battered text and began to read something in Latin.

“Too bad we couldn’t have put Sam in a robe or something,” Harry whispered to Ed, only to be shushed by Bobby. Bobby carefully poured a small stream of holy oil in a circle on the ground around where they had painted some sigils, and took out a box of matches.

The sky darkened as Sam continued to read, and in the distance, thunder crashed.

“Is that camera waterproof?” a worried Harry asked Spruce.

“Will you shut the fuck up!?” Bobby shouted as Sam continued to read.

“Bobby!” called Cas, who had just rushed outside.

“I just said-“ started Bobby.

“Bobby, stop!” said Cas. “This mark, a crescent moon?” he told him, holding up the Grand Grimoire. It’s not Zachariah, it’s-“

Just then thunder crashed again, blocking out anything Cas might have said. 

Bobby lit a match and, with a beating of wings, a figure appeared in the center the newly erupted circle of holy fire.

“Cas, what the hell do you think you’re doing? I’m working now!” asked the small figure in the center of the circle. He was wearing a preposterous fake mustache and, frankly, very little else.

“Gabriel,” said Cas. He shook his head, as if not believing what he saw. “Brother! You’re part of the plot to bring back Lucifer?”

“What?” asked Gabriel. “Oh, fuck no! I hate that guy.”

“Why did you leave the book with Sam then, angel?” asked Bobby, grabbing the text from Cas. “It’s got your wingprints on it.”

“Who the hell are you supposed to be, Grampa Simpson?” Gabriel demanded of Bobby. Bobby replied to Gabriel in Enochian, and they went back and forth for a couple of rounds.

“What are they saying, Cas?” Dean asked him.

“Um. Bobby told Gabriel that he lacks genitalia. Which, obviously, is not the case. And Gabriel retorted that Bobby has frequent intimate relations with swine.”

“Funnier in Enochian?” asked Dean.

“Yes, Dean.”

“Well, look then, Bobby Fucking Singer,” Gabriel was saying. “Did you even look at the book? The crap about summoning Satan is an afterword. Most of this book is actually protection spells. Basically, how to ward off Lucy if he's in your neighborhood.”

“Devil repellant?” asked Dean. “What, is the Prince of Darkness like a mosquito?”

“A really big mosquito,” said Gabriel. “But yeah, I suppose. In principle.” Gabriel snapped his fingers, and was suddenly dressed in a uniform, including a really big butterfly net.

“You left it there to help Sam, Gabriel?” Cas asked. He smiled, apparently relieved.

“You believe him, Cas?” asked Dean.

“Of course, Dean. My brother wouldn’t lie,” Cas told him.

“I don’t even believe his damn facial hair!” said Bobby.

“Oh, this,” said Gabriel, tugging off the fake 'stache. “I was working. It's my gimmick. I’m Senor Mustache Ride.”

“Wait, wait, Gabriel,” said Dean. “How could you be back to work so fast? The Holy Mother of God blew up. I was there.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “I only worked HMOG on Tuesdays and alternate Thursdays. I work at The Saucy Angel on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday,” he related, and suddenly, he was dressed in a robe with little cardboard wings taped on his back and a halo made of pipe cleaners on his head. “And then at The Nun's Knickers on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday,” he continued, as he had now switched to a nun's habit. “And Monks, Friars and Beyond on Tuesday and Saturday,” he finished; now wearing a bishop's mitre.

Dean was toting everything up on his fingers. “Wait, how do you work everywhere on Tues-” But Cas elbowed him.

“Dean, no matter what you do, do not ask Gabriel about Tuesdays,” Cas whispered.

“This sorry specimen is your kin?” Bobby demanded of Cas.

“Um. Gabriel was always … artistic,” Cas offered, though his cheeks flushed red.

“So you guys gonna let me out? I got an afternoon show at the Little Slice of Heaven Gentlemen's Club,” asked Gabriel. He was now dressed in a three piece suit. He pulled an absurdly large pocked watch out of the vest.

“What I wanna know is, what the hell happened to the Zachariah dude?” asked Ed.

“Shut up, Ed!” scolded several people.

“Why, I’m right here,” grinned Zachariah, who had arrived with a soft flutter of wings.

“Oh, holy crap!” said Gabriel, who had gone pale.

“Are you getting this? Are you getting this?” Harry demanded of Spruce.

Everyone, including Spruce, edged back as Zachariah, smile pasted to his lower face, sauntered over to the holy oil fire and, casual as could be, circumnavigated it, eyeing Gabriel like a panther stalking its prey.

“Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel,” said Zachariah, holy fire lighting his eyes.

“That's my name. Don't wear it out,” snapped Gabriel, although he looked terrified.

“Just when I'm in need of an archangel, and you wrap one up and tie it in a bow. There should be a promotion in this for you, Castiel.”

“Zachariah, what are you planning?” asked Castiel.

“I was going to unlock Lucifer,” said Zachariah. “But then Michael assigned an annoying angelic boy scout to dog my steps.” 

“Boy scout?” asked Cas, who looked baffled.

“Think he means you, dude,” said Dean helpfully.

“But Lucifer has already escaped, Zachariah,” said Cas.

“Yeah, he showed up in my brother’s kitchen,” noted Dean.

Zachariah grinned. “Saaaaaaam!” he wailed, his voice suddenly taking on a very familiar echo. 

“It was _you_ possessing Nick?” asked Sam.

“Oh, so there is one halfway intelligent being here,” said Zachariah.

“Zachariah, it is against all regulations to take a second vessel!” said Cas.

“And rude,” said Dean.

“Have you never heard about the ends justifying the means?” asked Zachariah.

“You won’t get away with it,” Cas told him.

“Oh, and who is going to stop me, pipsqueak?”

“We are.”

Zachariah emitted a terribly unappealing laugh. “It’s far too late for that, Castiel. Despite your meddling, I have the souls ready. And I have Lucifer's true vessel,” he grinned, now approaching Sam and looking him up and down appraisingly.

Cas jumped in front of Sam. “You stay away from him,” he threatened.

“Cute,” grinned Zachariah, flicking his hand. Cas was hurled back, crashing against the side of the house. He slid to the floor, moaning. “And just so you know, I filed the paperwork to cut off your batteries. Permanently.”

“Keep away from him, Nazi asshole,” said Dean, who had run over to help Cas.

“Oh, he'll be fine,” tutted Zachariah. “What's a broken bone or two when we have an apocalypse to run!” Then Zachariah snapped his fingers, and suddenly Sam disappeared.

“Sam!” said Dean. “Where the hell did you send my brother?”

“Not to worry. He's some place safe,” said Zachariah. “And stocked with plenty of disgusting tofu burgers. So, Gabriel, congratulations, because you are the final piece! I need an archangel to absorb the souls I've collected. Now if you could just make everything easy and gobble up a soul or two for me.”

“I'm not eating any souls,” said Gabriel, rubbing his stomach. “Gives me indigestion.”

“Oh, Kali will be so disappointed.”

“Kali?” asked Gabriel, his eyes suddenly going wide. “Um, I don't care. We're not going together any more. We're.... We're taking a break!”

“You broke up with Kali, Gabriel?” asked Cas, who was still sitting on the ground by the wall of the house, holding his side.

“She's seeing Baldur,” sighed Gabriel.

“I did not know, Gabriel,” said Cas. “I am sorry.”

“Yeah, I'm cool,” said Gabriel.

“So you won't mind when my men slit her throat?” asked Zachariah.

“You wouldn't,” said Gabriel. “I mean, would you?” Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Oh, who am I kidding. You totally would, you've always been a major sack of douchery.”

“Here's one thing I don't understand, angel,” said Bobby, waving a beer bottle at Zachariah. “Why in hell are you so bent on starting the damn apocalypse?”

“Did none of you idiots read the bible?” asked Zachariah. “We're angels! It's what we do!”

“It's not what I do,” said Cas from where he was still sitting on the ground.

“Which is why you're being put on a performance plan,” Zachariah told him.

“Zachariah, your plot is at an end. I'm Ed Zeddmore and you've been CAUGHT ON TAPE!” announced Ed, who strode boldly forward so he could stand in the same frame as Zachariah.

“Oh, what now?” huffed Zachariah.

“We have all your evil dealings caught on camera now!” said Ed, boldly mugging for the camera. 

“It's sort of his new idea for a TV show,” Harry told Zachariah apologetically.

“Hmpf! Well, it's a terrible idea,” puffed Zachariah.

“That's what I've been trying to tell him,” said Harry.

“Why is it terrible?” asked Ed. He narrowed his eyes at Zachariah. “That's not helpful criticism, that's just trolling.”

Zachariah rolled his eyes. “For one thing, it's clichéd! And worst of all, it's been done.”

“Not with my concept,” insisted Ed.

“There is nothing new under the sun,” lectured Zachariah.

While Zachariah continued to argue with Ed and Harry regarding television programming strategies, Dean noticed Cas had nudged his arm. He turned to the angel, who didn't reply, but cast a glance towards a low shelf near Dean. Dean followed Cas’s eyes, nodded, and then looked over at Gabriel, trying desperately to catch his eye. Gabriel, still trapped in the middle of the circle of holy fire, was busily playing with a yo-yo. Dean heaved a sigh, picked up a pebble and tossed it at Gabriel, knocking him on the head right in the middle of Around the World. The angel, now tangled in yo-yo string, turned and scowled at Dean.

“You obviously have no idea how the television industry works,” Zachariah was lecturing.

“I'm an industry professional!” protested Ed. “What are your qualifications, Feather Man?”

“I am Assistant Vice President for the Department of Revelation,” insisted Zachariah.

“Title inflation,” Ed muttered to Harry.

Dean suddenly rolled over and grabbed a bucket of sand from the shelf, which he flung on the holy oil fire, breaking the circle. And, just like that, Gabriel was no longer there.

“Oh. Fudge,” sighed Zachariah, who now had a sword point sticking out of his chest. A blinding white light poured out of his eyes and mouth. And then he spasmed, and collapsed.

“No one threatens my lady and gets away with it!” yelled Gabriel, who was now behind where Zachariah had stood, waving his bloody sword. The effect however was somewhat lessened in that he was still had a Duncan yo-yo tangled around him.

“We still gotta find Sammy,” said Dean, who helped Cas to his feet. Gabe came over and touched Cas on the forehead, healing his broken rib. Cas immediately straightened up. 

“Thanks, Gabriel,” said Cas.

“If I were a complete douche nozzle, where would I hide Lucifer's vessel?” mused Gabriel. “Oh, shit!” he said, and he and Cas suddenly looked around.

“Oh! What the hell is goin' on now?” asked Bobby as lightning flashed.

“That's my question as well,” said the newly arrived being. He was attended by a pack of really large, apparently angelic, attendants. “Castiel. And … Gabriel? Is that you?”

“Oh, spare me, Mikey,” said Gabriel, waving his sword. “I don't hop to your tune anymore.”

“Um. Dean. This is my brother, Michael,” said Castiel, who seemed a bit more impressed than Gabriel.

“What the bloody blue blazes is going on here?” demanded Michael.

Dean looked at Cas. “Are we busted?”

“Yes, Dean, we are … busted.”

 

“Wanna burger?” asked Dean.

“I don't care for anything, thank you,” said Cas, sadly eyeing the heavily laden banquet table in the center of the ridiculously lavish and ornate room he, Dean and Gabriel now occupied.

“How 'bout you, Gabe?” offered Dean. Gabriel, who had set himself down in a corner to check his text messages, simply waved a hand.

“You get cell service here, dude?” asked Dean.

“Yeah, glad I switched to the Celestial Friends and Enemies plan,” Gabe told him, not taking his eyes off the smart phone screen.

Cas shifted uncomfortably on his seat and sighed softly. Dean sat down next to him and waved a beer at him. “I am not thirsty, either, Dean,” said Cas.

“Dude. This is beer. And you need one.”

Cas smiled sadly at Dean and accepted the beer. “Perhaps I will become inebriated,” he said.

“Cool. Then I'll get to see what I can do with a drunken angel,” said Dean.

“Will you two get a room?” snarked Gabriel from the other side of the suite.

“Shut up, Gabriel,” said Dean.

“I'm just looking out for my little bro!” protested Gabriel. “Five hundred million years is a little long to go without it, if you know what I mean.”

“Wait,” Dean asked Cas, who was blushing and trying to look absolutely anywhere but at Dean. “You've never-?”

Cas shrugged. Dean got up and grabbed another beer, which he handed to Cas. “I haven't finished this one,” said Cas, holding up his half-finished beer.

“Drink faster,” said Dean. “We'll get both your problems cleared up.”

Cas regarded the bottle. “I suppose I cannot possibly be in worse trouble,” he sighed. With a look of determination, he raised the bottle and chugged the contents in one go. He finished, gasping, and looking a little cross-eyed.

“I thought alcohol didn't affect angels?” said Dean.

“He lost his powers, Dean,” chuckled Gabriel. “Congrats, your boyfriend is a cheap drunk.”

Castiel took the second bottle of beer and downed a good volume of that as well. He peered at Dean. “Do you find me appealing, Dean?” he asked.

“Of course, dude. Hey. You're a frickin' angel.”

“I'm not listening!” shouted Gabriel.

Cas leaned over and gripped Dean's knee. “I think you are very cool, Dean,” he confided.

“Really? That's good.”

“Not. Listening!” repeated Gabriel.

“Then. Shut. Up,” Dean scolded as Cas downed some more liquid courage. 

“I am not supposed to think of such things, such as how long your eyelashes are,” explained Castiel as Dean blinked self-consciously and helpfully handed him another beer. “I obeyed many rules and strictures, for so long. But where, I ask you, has it gotten me?”

“Mike's waiting room,” said Gabriel.

“It really does look like a whorehouse in here,” said Dean.

“Angels are dicks,” said Gabriel.

“They really are,” agreed Dean.

Cas let out a rather loud belch.

Just as Michael appeared in the room.

“Castiel,” said Michael. “You are in big trouble this time. Huge trouble. And I'll have you know, I've just seen your performance evaluation, and you are going to be unsatisfactory in several categories, some of which I've just come up with for this report!”

“Listen to me, Michael-” said Castiel, rising unsteadily to his feet. Dean leapt up beside him, grabbing him as he began to list to the side.

“There is no way you're winging out of this one, Castiel. You'll be expelled! Or sent down to work in the Cherub Force.”

“Just a damn minute, Grumpy,” said Dean.

“Dean, don't-” urged Cas. Dean waved him off.

“And don't you sass me, mud monkey,” growled Michael.

“You don't know?” said Dean. “I'm the Righteous Man. Like in the prophecy!”

Michael leaned over so his face was inches from Dean's. “Do I look like I care?”

“Stay back!” shouted Castiel, who stepped between them and pushed Michael back. “Dean is the Righteous Man! You do not touch him!” he raved. “Not even one of his eyelashes! Because....”

“Because what, Castiel?” asked Michael.

“You'll make me very angry,” said Cas, as he swayed into Dean's arms.

“Castiel, your actions just resulted in the death of Zachariah!”

“Zachariah was a nozzle full of douches!” Cas told him, waving a beer bottle.

“And look at you! You’re drunk and disorderly. Consorting with humans as well as a notoriously deranged fallen angel.”

“Hey,” said Gabriel.

“And falling far below our dress code standards,” added Michael, gesturing at Castiel’s somewhat rumpled ensemble of denim, flannel and concert T shirt. “What are you supposed to be, an angel of the lord, or an attendee at a Bay City Rollers venue?”

“I’ll have you know, Metallica happens to be a regarded as pioneering influence the genre of thrash metal!” said Cas, pulling up his T shirt. 

“Give me one reason why I don't turn you into a scorch mark, Castiel,” said Michael.

“Because the man upstairs would be most displeased.”

“Joshua,” said Michael, turning to the kind-faced man who had just appeared in the room. “What is the meaning of this? This is an important personnel meeting.”

“Who the hell is this?” Dean whispered to Gabriel, who had finally pocketed his phone and come to stand beside him.

“Joshua,” Gabriel told him. “Very high up. He talks to the big guy. The holiest of holies.”

_“He knows Lars Ulrich?”_ asked a very thrilled Dean.

Gabriel rolled his eyes.

“As it happens, I was just chatting with Our Father,” said Joshua. “He has a message, regarding Dean Winchester.”

Michael crossed his arms. “And what would that be?”

“Well, as you might recall, He wrote that prophecy Himself. He was rather pleased with it.”

“Yes, I remember. Vain old bastard.”

“It was going to be the new thing. The Winchester Gospel.”

“Yes, we all got the commemorative coffee mugs,” said Michael, holding up a ceramic cup inscribed, “The Winchester Gospel.” 

“So, let us just say, He would be most displeased if anything … untoward happened to his Righteous Man.”

Michael glared at Dean.

“...Or any of his friends,” added Joshua.

Michael looked for a moment as if he would burst a blood vessel, but then slowly counted to however high angels can count in thirty seconds. Which is probably very, very high.

“All right. All right. Joshua. Tell Our Father, the message is understood.”

“Don't worry. He knows,” grinned Joshua. And, pausing to give Gabe a fist bump and a wink, he was gone.

“What was that about, Gabriel?” asked Michael. 

“Oh, Josh may have gotten comp tickets to my afternoon show,” said Gabe, waggling his eyebrows.

“Joshua goes to your shows?” asked Dean.

“He’s a madman!” attested Gabriel.

“Okay, Mike,” said Dean, rounding on the archangel. “Sounds like we gotta talk. Because the Righteous Man? He is pretty fucking annoyed right now. And you know, Lars Ulrich is listening!”

“What?” asked Michael. “All right, what is it, Dean?”

“Well, first off, I'm appointing Cas my official guardian angel,” said Dean, gripping a very surprised Cas by the shoulder.

“There's no such thing as a guardian angel!” tutted Michael.

“I said there is. So, now there is! Officially. It's part of my gospel, the gospel of me! And I have the coffee mug to prove it.”

Dean stood defiantly, locking eyes with Michael for a long moment, and Cas, straightening his shoulders, stood proudly by him.

“He doesn't even have his powers,” said Michael.

“Then give them back,” said Dean.

Michael snapped his fingers, and Cas suddenly stared in wonder at his own hands. He nodded to Dean.

“What else?” said Michael.

“I want my brother back from wherever Zach stashed him.”

Michael snapped his fingers, and suddenly two people were standing next to them: Sam Winchester, being patted on the back by the many, many, many arms of the goddess, Kali.

“So Jess said, maybe we should take a break...” Sam was saying.

“Oooo, poor thing,” tutted Kali, rubbing Sam’s shoulders solicitously with a long-fingernailed hand or two or three. Both of them suddenly seemed to realize they were no longer where they had been.

“Oh, uh. Hi everybody!” said Sam brightly.

“What do you think you're doing, Kali?” asked Gabriel.

“I'm listening to this poor, poor boy talk about his relationship,” Kali told him, pushing Sam’s hair out of his face.

“But what about _our_ relationship?” asked Gabriel.

“Oh? What relationship?” huffed Kali, her dark eyes blazing. “When a girl wants to go out to a fine restaurant, or take a moonlit walk on the beach, or go destroy the universe, where were you?” 

“Baby you know, I'm a busy guy! The show must go on. Come on, sweetie. We could write an appendix to the Kama Sutra, you and me.”

Kali held up a fake mustache, rolled her eyes, and disappeared.

“Wait, baby!” said Gabriel. He turned to Dean and Cas. “Guys, I gotta go after her. Because, you know, she's a chick. And she expects me to chase after her.”

“And you do not harbor any special affection for Kali,” said Cas, stifling a burp. 

Gabriel glared at Cas, but then his expression softened. “Will you be okay, Dean?”

“Yeah, I think we got it from here,” smiled Dean. Gabriel grinned and zapped out.

Michael sighed deeply. “Well, that was a sorry display. Dean, your brother has been returned to you. Does that satisfy you, _Righteous Man_.”

Dean motioned to the others, and then he, Cas and Sam huddled for a moment, while Michael tried to listen in without looking like he was listening in.

“Actually, we've got a list of demands,” said Dean when the huddle broke.

“Oh, what now?” demanded Michael.

“But, from now on, don't talk to me, Mike,” said Dean, suddenly reaching over and grabbing Sam by the arm. “From now on, talk to my lawyer!” Sam crossed his arms and glared down at Michael.

“Your....” sputtered Michael. “I'm from heaven! We don't have any lawyers up there!”

“I knew it,” Dean whispered to Cas, who nodded sagely.

 

Victor was working late again, so he looked up, somewhat surprised, at the late night knock on his door.

“Whoever the hell you are, I'm too busy! Short staffed.”

The door opened anyway, and a strangely familiar-looking woman popped her head inside. “Um, I'm looking for Mr. Henricksen?” she said.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but who are you?”

The woman hitched up the baby in her arms and stepped inside.

“My name is Phosphoros. Gloria Phosphoros.”

“You're....” said Victor, who suddenly recognized her.

“I'm Nick Phosphoros's wife,” she continued. “I understand you have my husband in custody? For killing … me?”

Victor went to his desk drawer and extracted a flask. He didn't bother with the glasses.

 

“So, I am officially off the Nick Phosphoros case,” Sam called from the bathroom.

“That's good,” laughed Dean. “So, you gonna be hanging around, clogging up my shower drain much longer?”

“Maybe. If that's okay? I just get the creeps when I go back to my place. And … there's a lot of memories there.”

“No problem,” smiled Dean. “Stay here as long as you like.”

“Thanks,” said Sam, who had emerged from Dean's bathroom wearing a snazzy suit with a green striped tie. 

“Hey, why are you all snazzed up?” asked Dean. “Dude, is that my tie?”

“Oh, uh, I was just going to, you know, go get a drink....”

“With Kali?” Cas asked. He was sitting on Dean's bed and may have even smiled.

Dean goggled at Cas and then turned to his brother. “What? No, Sammy! Are you nuts?” 

“Kali and me, we're just good friends,” Sam insisted.

“Sammy, she's a goddess of destruction,” said Dean. “And she’s dating a jealous archangel.”

“But she's really easy to talk to,” said Sam, glancing at his watch.

“You are not going to stay and watch the premiere with us then?” smiled Cas, who had picked up a remote control.

“You guys tell me how it goes,” laughed Sam as he departed.

“Don't … set off an apocalypse!” Dean called after him. He went and sat down next to Castiel, who had just clicked on the small television sitting on the bureau. “My brother is not always one for wise relationship decisions,” he muttered.

“I have noticed you have a larger television set out in the living room,” Cas told Dean.

“Oh, uh, it's sort of on the fritz,” said Dean. “And this is comfortable, right?” he asked, handing Cas a beer.

Cas gave him an odd look, but took the beer. “I am still, as you might say, a little hung over from the other night.”

“That’s okay, beer cures that,” said Dean, causing Cas to look at him skeptically.

_”Tonight, the premiere of, Spirits: Caught on Tape!”_ blasted the TV. A zippy theme song sounded, and then the picture changed to jerky footage of a ghostly figure. 

Suddenly, Ed hopped in front of the spirit, facing the camera. “So, Captain Hornswoggler, I'm Ed Zeddmore-”

“And I'm Harry Spangler!” cried Harry, who leapt in front of the spirit, and in front of Ed.

“And you've been-” continued Ed, who elbowed Harry.

“CAUGHT ON TAPE!” they chorused, as one tripped the other and then both went crashing to the floor. 

The spirit looked on, seeming confused.

“If you really wanna rid yourself of spirits,” came Bobby Fucking Singer’s voice from the TV, “then you gotta burn the bones,” he said, holding up a canvas bag. He put a lighter to the bag, and suddenly, the spirit appeared to burn up, and disappeared.

“But don’t do this at home, ya idjits!” Bobby warned. “Or I’ll come shoot you!”

“And he will, too!” said Ed who, along with Harry, had just scrambled to his feet.

The show suddenly clicked off. Dean had picked up the remote. “Uh. Sorry Cas. Not sure I can take any more of this right now,” he laughed.

Cas exhaled and collapsed back onto the bed. He stared at the ceiling for a moment.

“Long day?” asked Dean, smiling and staring over him.

“Dean,” said Cas, looking into Dean's eyes, “If I have not said so before, thank you.”

“I got a grateful angel? Cool,” said Dean. “That's almost as good as drunk.” He grinned down at Cas. “But you know what?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“You’re still wearing my Metallica T-shirt.”

Cas did not get up, but tilted his head to look down at my midsection. “Oh! I had forgotten! Did you want me-?”

“It's okay,” said Dean, sliding over to straddle Cas's legs. “I can get it.” He slipped both hands under the hem of the shirt and, as Cas watched, apparently fascinated, slipped the shirt up to reveal the angel's midsection. He bent down and softly kissed Cas on the belly. Cas writhed very slightly, but didn't protest. Then Dean slowly, very slowly, pushed up the shirt, taking time to kiss and nuzzle his way up Cas's torso. 

He paused when he had gotten to the level of Cas's heart, glancing up at Cas, who was regarding him curiously. Dean frowned, wondering if this had been a giant, celestial mistake.

“Dean?” said Cas at last.

“Yeah?”

“Isn't it traditional to begin this kind of thing with kisses applied to the lips?” asked Cas, pointing to his own face.

“I'm not a traditionalist,” laughed Dean. Cas locked eyes with him for a moment.

“I am,” said Cas. He smiled, ever so slightly. And pulled Dean towards him.


End file.
